“Oh,” said one, in a tone of voice that told what delicious satisfaction costly articles of dress gave her, “it is too lovely to be married in an India robe, with heavy embroidery and rich Valenciennes _berthé_ and trimming. If ever I’m married, I intend to make ma order one of Levy’s for me; it shall be imported especially for me.” “Oh, yes,” said Mrs. Jones, stopping in the midst of her harangue, _à la_ parenthesis, “Mr. Grugan received the order for Blanche’s wedding robe last year, the very day Mr. Holmes offered. No one knew it but her family, except me—I knew it, of course.” “I don’t believe she knew a word about it. Mrs. Jones is always pretending she’s so intimate with every body,” said a young lady, _sotto voce_; but Mrs. Jones was too deeply engaged in the tucks, and lace trimming, and Honiton veil, to hear the doubt and charge. The conversation increased in animation, and Mrs. Jones’s clear, high voice was almost drowned. “Ah,” exclaimed one, “it’s splendid to be married in such style.” “Yes,” rejoined another, “and how delightful to go right off on a journey, and to Europe, too.” “Oh, girls,” exclaimed one, “only think—Blanche Forrester went to school with me, and, here, she’s married!” “Well,” said another, “her first bridemaid, Helen Howell, and Aubrey Hilton, are engaged, and Helen was in the same class with me. We all came out last fall together—you’re no worse off than I am.” Some gentlemen joining the group, the conversation became too detached and confused to be heard, and there were so many little bursts of laughter as to make the whole affair quite a medley. Presently the scraping of the violins, preceded by a loud crash of the whole united band, announced that a waltz was about to be danced. “Oh!” they exclaimed, simultaneously, “that delicious _Schottische_,” and soon the balcony was empty—or at least so thought Edda; but she was mistaken, for she heard other voices. A lady and gentleman had seated themselves under her window, and were enjoying the sight of the waves and moonlight. She knew their voices well. One was a Mrs. Howard, a gentle, lady-like woman, for whom her husband entertained the highest respect. Edda knew but little of her; she had met her in society after her marriage, but had always drawn back a little in awe when she had met with her, because she constantly heard Ralph holding her up as such a model of wifely dignity and propriety. The other was a Mr. Morrison—a cynical, fault-finding old bachelor—or, at least, Edda had always regarded him as such. No wonder the poor girl shrank still closer to the lounge—she seemed doomed to be persecuted. Mrs. Howard and Mr. Morrison had heard part of the conversation about the wedding, and the first that reached Edda’s ears were Mr. Morrison’s severe, caustic remarks.