I'm not particularly in love with any one, he admitted, and so it is rather difficult to choose, but I want children and my children must have a mother. There is Mahalah Wiggins ... and there is the Rajah's grand-daughter. Well, I don't know that they will marry me, but I must decide what I am going to do before I give them a chance to decide what they are going to do!
A week or so later: I've been considering this question of marriage. It's a serious step. I can't rush into a thing like that. Mahalah doesn't like cats. You know, I couldn't give up my cats. I can't marry a woman who doesn't like cats. Luckily I haven't asked her.
A few days later: I will marry Mahalah, I think. She understands me; she doesn't seem to mind the crazy things I do. She is beginning to like the cats. She is healthy and she might produce fine children.
Another interval and then: She has accepted me. Isn't it wonderful for her to love me at my age for my money alone!
The preparations for the wedding were portentous, although it was to be celebrated as quietly as possible. There were clothes to buy and an apartment to be furnished. He left the decision of the day and place to Mahalah—fortunately that was her affair—but there was endless discussion about the honeymoon. He considered in turn nearly every spot on the globe, including Patagonia and Abyssinia. As the day in May set for the ceremony approached, Maine was mentioned rather more frequently than any other locality, but I had no real conviction that they would ultimately go there. I was to be the sole attendant at the wedding. That much seemed to be settled.
The great day dawned and brought with it a windy rain. I knew that Peter detested windy days; one of his superstitions associated them with disaster. He did not telephone me in the morning and his silence seemed ominous. Nevertheless, I put on a morning coat and a silk hat and presented myself at his rooms an hour before the minute set for the ceremony, which was to be celebrated in a little church in the neighbourhood. On another day, I would not have been surprised to find a note from Peter instead of himself but when, on reaching the top landing, I discovered the door open, and an old charwoman, packing up books and bowls inside, handed me a note with the superfluous information that Mr. Whiffle had gone away, my knees shook to such an extent that I wondered if I had suddenly become afflicted with tabes.
I managed to ask, Where?
I dunno, sir. He took his trunks.
I opened the letter.