II.
Those splendid steeds, David and Angela, having been duly exercised, groomed, and turned out to browse upon bun-corn, George rushed at once upon the matter that was singing within him.
Where he sat with his Mary they were sheltered from any but chance obtrusion. She had taken off her gloves, and George gave her hands, as they lay in her lap, a little confident pat. It was the tap of the baton with which the conductor calls together his orchestra—for this was a song that George was about to tune, very confident that the chords of both instruments that should give the notes were in a harmony complete.
He said: “Mary, do you know what I am going to talk about?”
She had been a little silent that morning, he had thought; did not answer now, but smiled.
He laid a hand upon both hers. “You must say 'yes.' You've got to say 'yes' about twenty times this morning, so start now. Do you know what I'm going to talk about?”
“Yes.”
“No objections this time?”
“Yes.”
He laughed; gave her hand a little smack of reproof. (You who have loved will excuse these lovers' absurdities.) “No, no; you are only to say 'yes' when I tell you. No objections to the subject this morning?”
His Mary told him “No.”
“Couldn't have a better morning for it, could we?”
She took a little catch at her breath.
George dropped the banter in his tone. “Nothing wrong to-day, is there, dear? Nothing up?”
How sadly wrong everything in truth was she had determined not to tell him until she more certainly knew its extent. She shook her head; reassuringly smiled.
“Well, that's all right—there couldn't be on a morning like this. Now we've got to begin at the beginning. Mary, I planned it all out last night—all this conversation. We've got to begin at the beginning—Do you know I've never told you yet that I love you? You knew it, though, didn't you, from the first, the very first? Tell me from when?”
“George, this is awfully foolish, isn't it?”
“Never mind. It's jolly nice. It's necessary, too. I've read about it. It's always done. Tell me from when you knew I loved you.”
“After last Saturday.”
“Oh, Mary! Much earlier than that! You must have!”
“Well, I thought perhaps you—you cared after that first day when you came here.”
“Not before that?”
She laughed. “Come, how could I? Why, I'd hardly seen you.”
“Well, I did, anyway,” George told her. “I loved you from the very minute you shot out of the cab that day. There! But even this isn't the proper thing. I've been promising myself all night to say four words to you—just four. Now I'm going to say them: Mary, I love you.”
She looked in his eyes for a moment, answering the signal that shone thence; and then she laughed that clear pipe of mirth which was so uniquely her own possession.
“Oh, I say, you mustn't do that,” George cried. He was really perturbed.
“I can't help it. You are so utterly foolish.”
“I'm not. It's the proper thing. I tell you I've planned it all out. I love you. I've never said it to you before. Now it's your turn.”
“But what on earth am I to say?”
“You've got to say that you love me.”
“You're making a farce of it.”
“No, I tell you I've planned it all out. I can't go on till you've said it.”
“You can't expect me to say: 'George, I love you.' It's ridiculous. It's like a funny story.”
“Oh, never mind what it's like. Do be serious, Mary. How can I be sure you love me if you won't tell me?”
For the first moment since its happening the thought of Bob Chater and of Mrs. Chater passed completely from Mary's mind. She looked around: there was no soul in sight. She listened: there was no sound. She clasped her fingers about his; leaned towards him, her face upturned....
He kissed her upon the lips....
“The plans,” said George after a moment, “have all gone fut. I never thought of that way.”
“It's much better,” Mary said.
“The other's not a patch upon it,” said George.