Foster!"
"No, she doesn't. What she minds is his making a clown of himself in
her front yard! It made her think he didn't care much about her.
She's probably mistaken, but that's what she thinks, and it's too late
for her to think anything else now, because she's going to be married
right away--the invitations will be out next week. It'll be a big
Amberson-style thing, raw oysters floating in scooped-out blocks of
ice and a band from out-of-town--champagne, showy presents; a colossal
present from the Major. Then Wilbur will take Isabel on the
carefulest little wedding trip he can manage, and she'll be a good
wife to him, but they'll have the worst spoiled lot of children this
town will ever see."
"How on earth do you make that out, Mrs. Foster?"
"She couldn't love Wilbur, could she?" Mrs. Foster demanded, with no
challengers. "Well, it will all go to her children, and she'll ruin
'em!"
The prophetess proved to be mistaken in a single detail merely: except
for that, her foresight was accurate. The wedding was of Ambersonian
magnificence, even to the floating oysters; and the Major's colossal
present was a set of architect's designs for a house almost as
elaborate and impressive as the Mansion, the house to be built in
Amberson Addition by the Major.
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