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Mary could not speak, but consternation passed for an appropriate confusion, and John pursued his passionate pleadings. As Mary felt his grasp and looked into his honest eyes, her duty lay plain before her. She would not stoop to paltry excuses on the score of clothes, invitations, or such trifles. She had made up her mind to the thing; surely she ought to do it in the way most gracious and most pleasing to her lover.

“If Aunt consents,” she murmured at last, “do as you like, John dear,” and the embrace which each felt to be inevitable at such a crisis passed between them.

A discreet cough separated them. The butler stood in the doorway, with two letters on a salver. One he handed to Mary, the other to John, and walked away with a twinkle in his eye. However even our butlers do not know everything that happens in our houses (to say nothing of our hearts), although much they may think they do.

John looked at his letter, started violently and crushed it into his pocket. He glanced at Mary; her letter lay neglected on her lap. She was looking steadily out of the window.

“Well, that’s settled,” said John. “I–I think I’ll have a cigar, dear.”

“Yes, do, darling,” said Mary, and John went out.

These second letters were unfortunately so long as to make it impossible to reproduce them. They were also very affecting, Dora’s from its pathos, Charlie’s from its passion. But the waves of emotion beat fruitlessly on the rock-built walls of conscience. At almost the same moment, Mary, brushing away a tear, and John, blowing his nose, sat down to write a brief, a final answer. “We are to be married today fortnight,” they said. They closed the envelopes without a moment’s delay and went to drop their letters in the box. The servant was already waiting to go to the post with them and a second later the fateful documents were on their way to Cannes.

“Now,” said John, with a ghastly smile, “we can have a glorious long day together!”

Mary was determined to leave herself no loophole.

“We must tell Aunt what–what we have decided upon this morning,” she reminded him. “It means that the wedding must be very quiet.”

“I shan’t mind that. Shall you?”

“I shall like it of all things.” she answered. “Come and find Aunt Sarah.”

Miss Bussey had always–or at least for a great many years back–maintained the general proposition that young people do not know their own minds. This morning’s news confirmed her opinion.

“Why the other day you both agreed that the middle of June would do perfectly. Now you want it all done in a scramble.”

The pair stood before her, looking very guilty.

“What is the meaning of this–this (she very nearly said ‘indecent’) extraordinary haste?”

Miss Bussey asked only one indulgence from her friends. Before she did a kind thing she liked to be allowed to say one or two sharp ones. Her niece was aware of this fancy of hers and took refuge in silence. John, less experienced in his hostess’s ways, launched into the protests appropriate to an impatient lover.

“Well,” said Miss Bussey, “I must say you look properly ashamed of yourself [John certainly did], so I’ll see what can be done. What a fluster we shall live in! Upon my word you might as well have made it tomorrow. The fuss would have been no worse and a good deal shorter.”

The next few days passed, as Miss Bussey had predicted, in a fluster. Mary was running after dress makers, John after licenses, Cook’s tickets, a best man, and all the impedimenta of a marriage. The intercourse of the lovers was much interrupted, and to this Miss Bussey attributed the low spirits that Mary sometimes displayed.

“There, there, my dear,” she would say impatiently–for the cheerful old lady hated long faces–“you’ll have enough of him and to spare by and by.”

Curiously this point of view did not comfort Mary. She liked John very much, she esteemed him even more than she liked him, he would, she thought, have made an ideal brother. Ah, why had she not made a brother of him while there was time? Then she would have enjoyed his constant friendship all her life; for it was not with him as with that foolish boy Charlie, all or nothing. John was reasonable; he would not have threatened–well, reading–his letter one way, Charlie almost seemed to be tampering with propriety. John would never have done that. And these reflections, all of which should have pleaded for John, ended in weeping over the lost charms of Charlie.