"If I must, I must, I suppose," she whispered to herself, and outloud, holding out both her hands to Reba, "Come into the drawing-room, my dear," she said.
That same afternoon, from behind her silver teakettle, purring comfortably as usual at a five o'clock on Saturday, Mrs. Barton could talk of nothing with the two or three intimate friends who had dropped in to see her and drink a cup of her tea, but the marriage she had witnessed in the morning.
"I simply couldn't keep the tears out of my eyes. I've been to more weddings than I am years old, I suppose, but never to one that affected me like this. To hear the voice of that great big hulk of a young man trembling over those familiar phrases, and no music, and no flowers, and no audience but just me, for a background, and Norah the chamber-maid for an extra witness, and Robert there before me, so solemn and grave—well!" She shrugged prettily.
"I told Robert afterward that I just couldn't send that sweet young thing down to the train, or wherever they were going, away from my house after her wedding, on foot. So I made them come upstairs and sit down a little while here, and while we waited for the limousine to come I served them some of these little currant-cakes, though the young man wouldn't eat a thing. And I put a piece of one in a little empty wedding-cake box I had, and gave it to the bride for her to take away. And I kissed her when she went! She just won me, somehow—so modest and refined—and I told her that I hoped she'd be happy, and if she was lonely, when her husband was away on his boat, she must come and see me because I'd be lonely too,
