The Grande Dame of Geneseo did not agree with any of these
makeshifts. There would be no Corklesville wedding if she could
help it, with gaping loungers at the church door; nor would there
be any Maryland wedding with a ten-mile ride over rough roads to a
draughty country-house, where your back would freeze while your
cheeks burned up; nor yet again any city wedding, with an awning
over the sidewalk, a red carpet and squad of police, with Tom,
Dick, and Harry inside the church, and Harry, Dick and Tom
squeezed into an oak-panelled dining-room at high noon with every
gas-jet blazing.
And she did not waste many seconds coming to this conclusion. Off
went a telegram, after hearing the various propositions, followed
by a letter, that might have melted the wires and set fire to the
mail-sack, so fervid were the contents.
"Nonsense! My dear Ruth, you will be married in my house and the
breakfast will be in the garden. If Peter and your father haven't
got any common sense, that's no reason why you and Jack should
lose your wits.
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