“I was thinking of my party, not history. And they certainly improve most of the men, as well as the girls. I never thought anything could improve Polly, but she looks like the most exquisite miniature ever painted.” “Old Geoff evidently thinks so. He’s been dancing with her all evening. He’s come out of his triple-plated shell with a vengeance. Never saw such a metamorphosis. Always took for granted he had the same ugly mug as the rest of us, and he looks like a stunning old picture come to life. Polly may have met her fate.” “Wouldn’t that be splendid!” Gita’s voice rang with enthusiasm. “Hardly for Geoff. But——” He gave her a sharp narrowed glance. “Odd that you should countenance even your friends’ falling in love!” “Ah, but Polly’s bound to marry some day. They all think they must. And it is something to satisfy the artistic eye of one’s friends. They harmonize in looks, in height and in coloring—oh! I forgot—Polly said once she couldn’t endure being married to a fair man.” “Girls have been known to change their minds.” Bylant’s tones were both dry and hopeful. “Nothing is safer to bet on.” “Gita! Are you there?” Elsie appeared round the corner of the tree. “It’s half-past eleven. Time for you to dress.” Gita sprang to her feet wildly, her eyes darting about like those of a forest animal caught in a trap. “Oh, I can’t! I——” She met Bylant’s smiling gaze, and her nerves, which had seemed to arch all over her body and hiss with a thousand voices, received a sharp admonition from her brain and subsided. “Come along!” Her voice was gay again. “And Eustace, take off your wig.” CHAPTER XXV Gita, attended by Polly and Elsie until the last minute that she be given no time to change her mind, stood before the psyche mirror and smiled at her reflection. She had no intention of changing her mind, for she knew that such an opportunity to outshine all other women and etch an indelible picture into the minds of all beholders, was granted to few girls even on their wedding-day. The mass of delicate lace billowed widely about her slender figure, and the long veil (exhumed from the chest later and almost as transparent as tulle) hung from a high coronet of orange-blossoms “built” by Polly and dipped in weak coffee. She had removed her wig, and her hair, wiry and vibrant, and of an intense dusky blackness, had been drawn forward to soften the uncompromising stiffness of the head-dress. She wore her rope of pearls, and, about the base of her throat, a string of larger pearls, a present from Eustace. They had belonged to his mother. Her eyes blazed with excitement, and her mouth, which had begun to take an upward curve at the corners, was very full and very red. Polly took out her lip-stick with a sigh. “You are the loveliest thing on earth, Gita,” announced Elsie, with the enthusiasm of both artist and friend. “If ever you are in the mood to hate life just remember tonight.”