eshoes, and a Paris hat on my head, and a trembling treble voice
whispering in my ear:--

"Good-bye, Evelyn darling--darling! Thank you--thank you for all you
have been to me! Oh, Evelyn, _promise_ you will not be unhappy!"

Then some mysterious hidden muscle, whose existence I had never before
suspected, pulled two little strings at the corners of my mouth, and my
lips smiled--a marionette smile--and a marionette voice cried
jauntily:--

"Unhappy? Never! Why, I am free! I am going to begin to live."

Then I watched a tall bridegroom in tweeds tenderly help a little bride
in mole-coloured taffeta and sable furs into the waiting car, the horn
blew, the engines whirled, a big hand and a little one flourished
handkerchiefs out of the window, a white satin shoe danced ridiculously
after the wheels, and Aunt Emmeline cried sensibly:--

"That's over, thank goodness! The wind _is_ sharp! Let's have tea!"

She hurried into the house to give orders, and the old Evelyn Wastneys
stood staring after the car, as it sped down the drive, passed through
the lodge gates, and spun out into the high road. She had the
strangest, most curious feeling that it was only the ghost of herself
who stood there--a ghost in a Paris hat and gown, with long suede gloves
wrinkled up her arms, and a pendant of mingled initials sparkling on her
lace waistcoat. The real, true Evelyn--a little, naked, shivering
creature--was skurrying after that car, bleating piteously to be taken
in.

But the car rolled on quicker and quicker, its occupants too much taken
up with themselves to have time to waste on dull other people. In
another minute it was out of sight, but the ghost did not come back.
The new Evelyn lingered upon the steps, waiting for it to return. There
was such a blank, empty ache in the place where her heart used to be.
It seemed impossible that that skurrying little ghost would not come
back, nestle again in its own place, and warm up the empty void. But it
never came back. The new Evelyn turned and walked into the house.

"Well, it has all gone off very well! Kathleen looked quite nice,
though I always do say that a real lace veil is less becoming than
tulle. There was a rose and thistle pattern right across her nose, and
personally I think those sheaves of lilies are too large. I hope she'll
be happy, I am sure! Mr Anderson seems a nice man; but one never
knows. It's always a risk going abroad. A young Canadian propose