“Well?” said she, smiling at him.
It suddenly struck John that, in a scene of this nature, it ill-befitted him to stand three yards from the lady. He took a chair and drew it close beside her. The thing had to be done and it should be done properly.
“We’ve made a mistake, Mary,” he announced, taking her hand and speaking in a rallying tone.
“A mistake!” she cried; “oh, how?”
“In fixing our marriage——.”
“So soon?”
“My darling!” said John (and it was impossible to deny admiration to the tone he said it in), “no. So late! What are we waiting for? Why are we wasting all this precious time?”
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.