“No,” she said firmly, “but it will be better. Have I your consent to this?”
He walked away a few steps, desperately puzzled, exasperated, by the necessity of answering yes or no, when more than he could imagine might depend upon the choice.
“This is a joke, Ada!” he said, coming back with disturbed countenance.
“Nothing less. I ask you to postpone our marriage till I am twenty-one.”
Her eyes did not move from his face. If he had said, “We will be married next week,” she would have given him her hand in assent. Surely at that moment the air must have been full of invisible mocking spirits, waiting, waiting in delicious anticipation of human folly.
“If that is your wish,” Lacour said, “I cannot oppose it.” He had assumed dignity.
“My constancy, Ada, can bear a test of eighteen months.”
“I will let Mrs. Clarendon know,” Ada observed quietly. “It will relieve her mind.”
Should he leave her thus? He hesitated for a moment. Pooh! As if he could not whistle her back whenever it suited him to do so; women appreciate a display of dignity and firmness. He held his hand in silence, and, when she gave him hers, he just touched it with his lips. As he moved to the door he expected momently to hear his name uttered, to find himself recalled. No; she allowed him to disappear. He left the house rather hurriedly, and not in an entirely sweet temper, in spite of the fact that he had gained the very end he had in view, and which he had feared would be so difficult of attainment, would necessitate such a succession of hypocrisies and small conflicts.
How the imps in the air exploded as soon as he was gone!