Congratulations fell thick and fast, and last, but not least, came
those of Moses Spriggins.
"Well, sir, I used ter say I'd be no small potatoes one o' these
days, but I never dreamed I'd have a millionar at my weddin'. Wal,
thar's no accountin' for miracles these times," and the iron hand
left its impress upon the soft palm of the "millionar" in a manner
that showed heartiness minus conventionalism.
But there was another who tendered congratulations while a deeper
shadow settled down and shut out any approach of joy or gladness.
Marguerite Verne could not fail to see the difference in her
mother's reception of Phillip Lawson as he now is, and this thought
gave her pain.
The possessor of forty thousand, and a poor penniless lawyer, were
indeed two different beings in Mrs. Verne's partial eyes. They were
unlike in appearance, character, action--aye, as opposite as two
extremes could well be.
Mr. Lawson, in his altered condition, was handsome, was more
distinguished looking, could converse more fluently, was more
polished and more gallant.
But Marguerite Verne listened to her mother's eulogism with a calm
despair, and, save the pallor of her lips, no one could tell the
suffering within.
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