in an empty room, covered with a sheet, her veil of old lace beside it. Now and then the bridesmaids wandered in and lifting a corner of the sheet burst into little ohs and ahs of admiration. The gown was more than a gown to them. It was a symbol. They had an eager half-neurotic curiosity about Kay and Herbert. It was impossible to believe that these two self-contained people were soon to be one flesh, to share the same room, to enter into each other's most private lives.
Once, to please them, Kay put on her veil, with its bandeau of seed pearls, and Nora coming in whipped it off quickly.
"That's bad luck, Miss Kay! And you know it."
"What bad luck can touch her?" one of the girls drawled. "She's got everything, including—Herbert."
If there was malice in that Kay ignored it.
She meant to make Herbert a good wife. She did not believe in dutiful wives; she knew there must be more than that, so she meant to make him a loving wife. In a way she did care for Herbert; if she had not known the other thing she might even have called it love. He was consistently kind, and he took care not to ask of her more than she could give. And perhaps like Herbert she too believed in marriage as a sort of cure-all.
She was already saying "we" as well as writing it in her notes of thanks. And one night, when Herbert had kissed her and was about to go, she almost said a dreadful thing. He had got as far as the door.
"Well, good night, Kay."
"Good night, Herbert. Be sure" She caught herself then, but Herbert had turned.
"Be sure what, darling?"
"I've forgotten now. It wasn't important."
But it gave him an excuse to come back and kiss her again. After that she was more careful.
