and her jewels magnificent. Had there possibly lurked in her mind a desire to eclipse Laurence’s bridal splendors? But who is to gauge the possibilities of a feminine brain, old or young? At any rate, to quote Sir Robert, as far as “get up” went, she was easily ahead of her niece by several lengths; for the faint pink of the bride’s crêpe-de-Chine, looped up with natural Bengal roses, was of Basil’s selection, and therefore its exquisite simplicity paled before her aunt’s gold-laminated brocades and zibline-bordered train. Marguerite--who never cared much for what she wore--was, as usual, in white, something soft and clinging, with an almost imperceptible current of pearl and silver embroidery frosting its graceful folds; on the left shoulder a cluster of her namesake flowers, fastened by an antique silver Breton heart-and-crown, and about her throat on a slender silver thread a silver fleur-de-lys. So “young girlish”--_si délicieusement jeune fille!_ Basil had thought, as he had glanced furtively at her on her arrival. Now he did not dare to let his eyes wander in her direction, remembering the scene with Laurence only too well. Marguerite was placed diagonally opposite to him--the place of honor was occupied by the British Ambassadress, a handsome woman of fifty or so, whose blond bandeaux retained the silky brilliance that had caused her for many years to be known to her friends by the charming nickname of “_Rose d’or_,”--and above the yellow and lilac orchids of the surtout he trusted himself only to watch the “Gamin’s” strong little hands, playing with her knife and fork as though she were attending a schoolroom _dinette_ instead of one of her first formal dinner-parties. Beside her sat Neville Moray, a trifle too silent and contemplative, but still smiling amiably, and Preston Wynne, from his place by the Ambassadress, caught and passed the ball of gay chatter with Basil and “Antinoüs,” his next neighbor. Both were highly amused by his sallies as he related to them a recent trip to Sonora, where the elder Wynne owned a beautiful hacienda. Mexican _haut-faits_ were related in vividly picturesque language, dotted now and again with Spanish names and expletives of a gracious canority, while when the narrator dropped into plain United States his discourse became variegated with cowboy vernacular that brought tears of laughter to all eyes. “We’re a queer lot, aren’t we?” Wynne was saying. “A regular hodgepodge, _believe me_! You’ve got to sift the sheep from the goats if you want to have a good time, though I am bound to say that the sheep are not, by a long shot, the most amusing of the two--except when they are mountain-sheep with a lot of kick in them! As to the Dons, they are not half bad, keen as mustard, plucky as they make ’em, and with no genuine harm in them if one knows how to handle the breed. Give me a revoluting Mexican first, next, and always, in preference to some of our hand-raised products, made in Germany, for instance.”