"If only you had been firmer, Theodore."
"She had no right to say that," I said; "it's absolutely untrue!"
"I know, Theodore," she replied; "you have proved that you, at least, are no coward—but I believed her then. And I wrote you a line to say that I had altered my mind, and did not think it right to expose you or myself to such danger, and that I would wait for you by the Myddelton Statue. She promised to give you the letter at once!"
"I never got it," I said.
"No, she took care you should not. And I waited for you—how long I don't know—hours, it seemed—but you never came! Then I saw the people beginning to come out, and—and I went across and asked someone whether there had been any marriage or not, and he said, 'Yes, it had gone off without any accident, the bridegroom looked pale but was plucky enough, and so was the bride, though he couldn't tell how she looked, because of her veil.' And then of course, I knew that the deceitful cat had taken my place and managed to make you marry her! And at first I wanted to go back and stab her with my hat pin, but I hadn't one sharp enough, so I came home instead. And oh, Theodore, I do feel so ashamed! After boasting so much of my Spanish blood, and taunting you with being afraid as I did, to think that you should have shown the truer courage after all!"
I could not triumph over her then; I was too happy. "Courage, my darling, is a merely relative quality," I said. "Heaven forbid that we should be held accountable for the state of our nerves—even the bravest of us."
"But this marriage, Theodore," she said, "what can you do to have it set aside?"
"Do! Nothing," I replied; "after what you have told me, I no longer care to try."
"You despise me, then, because I broke down at the critical moment?"