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.