"Don't make it so hard for me," she went on. "I never before in my life told anybody I was sorry for anything, and I thought I never would. But I am sorry, and—we'll have the wedding the first day of August."
Still I found nothing to say. It was so painfully obvious that, true to her training, she had not given and was not giving a thought to the state of my mind and feelings. What she wished, that she would do—the rest did not interest her.
"Are you satisfied, my lord?" she demanded. "Have I humbled myself sufficiently?"
"You haven't humbled yourself at all," said I. "You have only humbled me."
She did not pause on my remark long enough to see what it meant. "Now that it's all settled," she said gaily, "I don't mind telling you that I began to make my preparations to be married on the first of August—when, do you think?"
"When?" I said.
"The very day I got your nasty letter, putting me second to your mother." And she laughed, and was still laughing, when she added: "So, you see, I was determined to marry you."
"I do," said I dryly. "I suppose I ought to feel flattered."
"No, you oughtn't," she retorted. "I simply made up my mind to marry you. And I'd do it, no matter what it cost. I get that from father. But I've got mother's disposition, too—and that makes me far too good for such a cold, unsentimental, ambitious person as you."
"Don't you think you're rather rash to confess so frankly—when I could still escape?"