In the field Vaughan, with several interruptions and reproaches for being a caution, managed to take the pad off her head and to throw it in the field. But an unfortunate thing happened. All the corn-coloured hair fell down over his face and he had kissed her—by accident—before he knew it.
"Oh, I say! You are a caution!" was her only remark. But she did not laugh, and as she hastily did a little amateur coiffing, he thought she looked slightly annoyed. At any rate, she hadn't much more to say to him, and he went back to London almost immediately, feeling quite absurdly agitated about such an unimportant trifle.
An hour later, when quietly at home in his study, Vaughan was suddenly seized by that species of madness that has been known to wreck careers, "to launch a thousand ships," to cause all kinds of chaos. It was that terrible once-on-board-the-lugger-and-the-girl-is-mine-I-must-and-shall-possess-her feeling in its most acute form. Most men have known it at some time in their lives. He thought of Harry de Freyne, and felt noble and superior in contrast to what his conduct would have been, as he sat down and wrote with intense pleasure—
"Darling Gladys,
"I love you. Will you marry me? Please try. I'm writing to your father. Don't keep me waiting long for the answer.
"Yours for always,
"Gillie."
He then wrote a long and sensible letter to Mr. Brill; all business, respect, and urgency, saying he knew that Gladys was very young, but that he would make her happy, and so forth.
These two letters he sent off by express messenger in a taxicab to the "Bald-faced Stag," and then sat down to dinner.
What a dinner! And what an evening he spent! He planned a long journey—what fun to show the child new places and things! Why shouldn't he marry the charming, refined, and beautiful daughter of an hotel-keeper? He decided even on alterations in the house, and he meant to be ecstatically happy.