"I love lectures," he laughed, "but you know that. Do you remember how I was so late last night that your mother locked me out—no, not your mother—it must have been François." He frowned heavily. "How curious that I should confuse François with your dear mother."
She listened eagerly, delightedly, forgetting, too, the matter that brought her. The phenomenon had no terror for her, tremendous though it was. He was the first to recall himself to the present.
"From Beryl?" he said quickly, "what is wrong?"
She handed him the letter and he read it carefully.
"How terrible!" he said in a hushed voice, "how appallingly terrible! He says she is marrying Steppe! That can't be true, either. It would be grotesque—"
She was on the point of telling him that the marriage was due for the second day, when he went abruptly into his room. He returned, carrying his overcoat, which he put on as he talked.
"The past can only be patched," he said, "and seldom patched to look like new. Omar crystallizes its irrevocability in his great stanza. We can no more 'shatter it to bits,' than 'remould it nearer to our heart's desire.'"
"Ronnie, Beryl is to be married the day after tomorrow."
"Indeed?"
He looked at her with a half smile and then at the clock. It was a minute past midnight.