“No—that’s just what I say. That’s why I want to tell him myself.”
“Jack!” cried Katharine, reproachfully. “You just said there’d be a row if I went to him about it.”
“Well—I think I can manage him better,” said Ralston. “You and he are used to fighting every day as a matter of habit, so that you’re sure to go at each other on the smallest provocation. But with him and me, it’s been a sort of rare amusement—the kind of thing one keeps for Sundays, and we don’t like it so much. Besides, since you say that he won’t be so angry after all, why shouldn’t I?”
“Exactly. And I say, why shouldn’t I?—for the same reason. I shall just say that we got married because we were afraid we should never get his consent, but that since he’s given it frankly,—he did in that letter,—we’ve agreed to tell.”
“That’s just what I should say,” answered Ralston. “Those are the very words I had in my mind.”
“Of course they are. Don’t we always think alike? But I want to tell him. I’d much rather.”
“So would I—much rather. It will end in our going together. That’s probably the most sensible thing we can do. There’ll be a certain grim surprise, and then the correct paternal blessing, and the luncheon or dinner, according to the time of day.”
“It will be dinner, if we go home and do it now,” said Katharine, thoughtfully.
“Come on! Let’s go!” answered Ralston. “There’s no time like the present for doing this sort of thing. Where are we? Oh—South Fifth Avenue’s over there to the left. That’s the shortest way, round that corner and then straight up.”
They turned and walked in the direction he indicated, both silent for a while as they thought of what was before them, and the final telling of the secret they had kept so long.