It was Mr. Harold Vreeland who later carried off all the honors of the sumptuous wedding as a proper “man-at-arms” in Cupid’s army. He was secretly approved by even the _raffinée_ bridesmaids. He was also the diplomatic messenger who delivered to Mrs. Alida Hathorn that superb diamond necklace which was Elaine Willoughby’s bridal offering. Hathorn remembered after the ceremony how strangely stately were his lovely patroness’ congratulations to the radiant bride. Vreeland’s speech at the Lakemere dinner was classic in its diction, and when the festivities slowly crystallized into iridescent memories, and the “happy pair” were half over to that “bourne” from whence many American travelers do not return—gay, glittering Paris—Mr. Harold Vreeland was soon besieged with many sweetly insidious invitations to Lenox, Bar Harbor, Narragansett Pier, Newport, the Hudson colony, and many other Capuan bowers of dalliance. Larchmont, Lakewood, Irvington, and other summer mazes opened their hospitable golden gates to him, and a swarm of biddings to polo, golf, lawn tennis, and other youthful circles, were gladly offered by man and maid. In other words, Vreeland was launched “in the swim.” In the hurried moments of the steamer parting, Vreeland would only vouchsafe a cool but diplomatic answer to Hathorn’s final pleadings. “I will meet and answer you on October 1st, but I’ll look in on Potter a bit.” He did cordially agree to give the bridegroom a friendly report of all the doings at Lakemere, and he had fallen heir to Hathorn’s intimacy with Justine—that spirited French maid, whose many life episodes had only deprived her of a shadowy candidacy for the honors of “_la Rosière_.” “I trust to you to look after my interests, Hod, in a general way,” eagerly said the bridegroom. “So I will,” heartily replied the young Lochinvar _à la mode_, and then he mentally added: “After my own are safe.” And, so bride and groom sailed away on the ocean of a newer life. He so far kept his promise, mindful of the gap already made by a dash into high life in his seven thousand dollars, as to closely cement an intimacy with Potter, begun over the “painted beauties.” Mrs. Hathorn’s bridal wreath had hardly withered before the astute Vreeland, a good listener, had become the chief adviser of Potter in his doubtful warfare with that bright-eyed Cossack of Love, Miss Dickie Doubleday. “Mr. Jimmy” now seriously contemplated a two years’ visit to Europe on the return of the successfully married Hathorn. “The little rift within the lute” was widening. Miss Doubleday was as exacting as she was charming, and even “rosy fetters of ethereal lightness” were galling to the spoiled child of fortune. Potter had secretly purchased a Gazetteer and had made some furtive studies as to Askabad, Astrachan, Khiva, Timbuctoo, Khartoum, and several other places where his golden-haired tyrant could not follow him without due premonition. He contemplated a “change of base.”