"Yes, Doris," said Vivien meekly.
The Nun addressed Andy severely. "Mrs. Belfield will consider that you're marrying above your station, Andy."
Andy scratched his big head. "Yes, Doris, and she'll be quite right," he said apologetically. "Of course she will! But a fellow can only—well, take things as they come." He broke into his hearty laugh. "What'll old Jack say?"
The Nun knew what old Jack would say—very privately. "I wish it had been you, miss!" But she had no envy in her heart.
"For people who do fall in love, it must be rather pleasant," she observed.
"The worst of it is, I've got so little time," said Andy.
The two girls laughed. "I only want you to have time to be in love with one girl," Vivien explained reassuringly.
"And, perhaps, just friends with another," the Nun added.
Andy joined in the laughter. "I shall fit those two things in all right!" he declared.
The afternoon saw them back at Meriton; it was there that Andy Hayes truly tasted the flavour of his good fortune. There the winning of Vivien seemed no isolated achievement, not a bit of luck standing by itself, but the master-knot among the many ties that now bound him to his home. The old bonds held; the new came. In the greetings of friends of every degree—from Chinks, the Bird, and Miss Miles, up to the great Lord Meriton himself—in Wellgood's hard and curt, yet ready and in truth triumphant, endorsement of an arrangement that banned the very thought of the man he hated, in old Jack's satisfaction in the vision of Andy in due time reigning at Nutley itself (his bit of sentiment about the Nun was almost swallowed up in this)—most of all perhaps in Belfield's cordial yet sad acceptance of his son's supplanter—he found the completion of the first stage of his life's journey and the definition of its future course and of its goal. His face was set towards his destination; the love and confidence of the friends of a lifetime accompanied, cheered, and aided his steady progress. No high thoughts were in his mind. To find time for the work of the day, his own and what other people were always so ready to leave to him, and to move on a little—that was his task, that bounded his ambition. Anything else that came was, as he had said to Harry Belfield, not of his seeking—and never ceased rather to surprise him, to be received by him with the touch of simple wonder, which made men smile at him even while they admired and followed, which made women laugh, and in a sense pity, while they trusted and loved. He saw the smiles and laughter, and thought them natural. Slowly he came to rely on the love and trust, and in the strength of them found his own strength growing, his confidence gradually maturing.