“I suppose it’s just rotten sentimentality. Still . . . I can’t help it. There it is. It’s the idea of seeing another woman in my mother’s place. I simply couldn’t stick it, W.G.”
“Well, old chap, I’m quite prepared to believe you know best. The thing is, what are you going to do? You can’t live on nothing in this hard world. You can share my bed for a week or two if you like. I’m sorry it won’t be for longer; but marriage appears to be in the air. To tell you the truth, I’m going to get married myself.”
“You married? . . . Good Lord! What on earth are you doing that for?”
“I don’t know. Force of circumstance, I suppose. It’s one of the things that happens when you least expect it.”
“Do I know her, W.G.?”
“Oh, yes . . . you know her. It’s Sister Merrion in Number Twelve.”
There came to Edwin a vision of a tall, dark girl, with wavy brown hair and Irish eyes, whom he couldn’t help remembering at the infirmary.
“I didn’t even know that you were friendly.”
“We weren’t until about three weeks ago. I happened to notice that she was looking rather down in the mouth, and took her out to tea; and then the poor girl broke down at the Dousita and told me all about her home affairs. It’s the devil and all to see a pretty girl like that crying. She’d been having a thin time of it at home with her father: a pretty rotten sort of fellow, I gathered, and that seemed the only way out of it. So we’re going to be married next month. A sort of fellow-feeling, you know.”
“But . . . Good Lord . . . are you in love with her?”