"You mean that you require driving like Paddy's pig? Oh, no, you don't, Moya; go and sleep upon it."
"Sleep!"
It was one burst of all she felt, but only one.
"I'm afraid you won't," said Theodore, with more humanity. "Still it's better to lose a night thinking things over, calmly and surely, as you're very capable of doing, than to go another day with that ring upon your finger."
Moya stared at him with eyes in which the fires were quenched, but not by tears. She looked dazed.
"Do put your mind to it—your own sane mind!" her brother pleaded, with more of wisdom than he had shown with her yet. "And—I don't want to be hard—I never meant to be hard about this again—but God help you now to the only proper and sensible decision!"
So was he beginning to send his juries about their vital business; and, after all, Moya went to hers with as much docility as the twelve good men and true.
Theodore was right about one thing. She must put her mind to it once and for ever.