“No—what do you think about it?” insisted Mrs. Bright. “We hadn’t said anything especial.”
“Is anybody present secretly married?” enquired Griggs, with a pleasant laugh. “No—exactly—then I shouldn’t advise any of you to try it. I did once—”
“You!” exclaimed two or three voices at once, and in surprise.
“Yes—on paper, in a book, with my paper dolls. I never want to do it again. It had awful consequences.”
“Why, what do you mean?” asked Mrs. Bright.
“Oh—nothing! I fell in love with the heroine myself from writing about her, killed the hero out of jealousy, and blew out my brains in the end because she wouldn’t have me. I suppose it was natural, considering what I’d done, but I took my revenge. I put her into a convent of Carmelite nuns. It was so awkward afterwards. I wanted her in another book—because I was in love with her—but as she was a Carmelite, she couldn’t get out respectably, so she’s there still. It’s an awful bore.”
Even Katharine, who had felt the blood rising again in her cheeks, laughed at the simple, natural regret expressed in Griggs’ face as he spoke.
“Yes,” said Bright. “That’s all very well in a novel. But in real life it’s quite different. I think a man who does that kind of thing is a cad, myself.”
“So do I,” said Archibald Wingfield, impetuously. “A howling cad, you know.”
“It’s an unnecessary piece of presumption to suppose that the world cares what one does,” said Crowdie, who had not spoken yet. “And it complicates things abominably to be married and not married at the same time. Shouldn’t you think so, Miss Lauderdale?” he asked, turning his head towards Katharine as he spoke.