It was when Little-Lovely Leila was choosing certain gowns for her trip
abroad that she had almost given away her secret to Delilah.
"I want a yellow one," she had remarked, "with a primrose hat, like I
wore when Barry and I----" She stopped, blushing furiously.
"When you and Barry what?" demanded Delilah.
Leila having started to say, "When Barry and I ran away to be married,"
stumbled over a substitute, "Well, I wore a yellow gown--when--when----"
"Not when he proposed, duckie. That was the day at Fort Myer. I knew
it the minute I came out and saw your face; and then that telephone
message about the picture. Were you really jealous when you found it
on my table?"
"Dreadfully." Leila breathed freely once more. The subject of the
primrose gown was shelved safely.
"You needn't have been. All the world knew that Barry was yours."
"And he's mine now," Leila laughed; "and I am to see him in--May."
In the days which followed she was a very busy little Leila. On every
pretty garment that she made or bought, she embroidered in fine silk a
wreath of primroses. It was her own delicious secret, this adopting of
her bridal color. Other brides might be married in white, but she had
been different--her gown had been the color of the great gold moon that
had lighted their way. What a wedding journey it had been--and how she
and Barry would laugh over it in the years to come!
For the tragedy which had weighed so heavily began now to seem like a
happy comedy. In a few weeks she would see Barry, in a few weeks all
the world would know that she was his wife!
So she packed her fragrant boxes--so she embroidered, and sang, and
dreamed.
Barry had written that he was "making good"; and that when she came he
would tell Gordon. And the General should go on to Germany, and he and
Leila would have their honeymoon trip.
"You must decide where we shall go," he had said, and Leila had planned
joyously.
"Dad and I motored once into Scotland, and we stopped at a little town
for tea. Such a queer little story-book town, Barry, with funny houses
and with the streets so narrow that the people leaned out of their
windows and gossiped over our heads, and I am sure they could have
shaken hands across. There wasn't even room for our car to turn
around, and we had to go on and on until we came to the edge of the
town, and there was the dearest inn. We stopped and stayed that
night--and the linen all smelled of lavender, and there was a sweet
dumpling of a landlady, and old-fashioned flowers in a trim little
garden--and all the hills beyond and a lake. Let's go there, Barry; it
will be beautiful."