Whatever his feelings were
towards her mother, he could not fail to appreciate fully this act
of the daughter, which rehabilitated him. It was with more than
his usual extravagance--shown even in a certain exaggeration of
respect towards Maruja--that he welcomed the party, and made
preparations for the dinner. The telegraph and mounted messengers
were put into rapid requisition. The bridal suite was placed at
the disposal of the young ladies for a dressing-room. The
attendant genii surpassed themselves. The evening dresses of
Maruja, Amita, and the Misses Wilson, summoned by electricity from
La Mision Perdida, and dispatched by the fleetest conveyances, were
placed in the arms of their maids, smothered with bouquets, an hour
before dinner. An operatic concert troupe, passing through the
nearest town, were diverted from their course by the slaves of the
ring to discourse hidden music in the music-room during dinner.
"Bite my finger, Sweetlips," said Miss Clara Wilson, who had a neat
taste for apt quotation, to Maruja, "that I may see if I am awake.
It's the Arabian Nights all over again!"
The dinner was a marvel, even in a land of gastronomic marvels; the
dessert a miracle of fruits, even in a climate that bore the
products of two zones. Maruja, from her seat beside her satisfied
host, looked across a bank of yellow roses at her sister and
Raymond, and was timidly conscious of the eyes of young Guest, who
was seated at the other end of the table, between the two Misses
Wilson.
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