When they descended to earth and were seated on a little sofa in the remotest corner, he demanded an explanation of the torments imposed upon him during the past fortnight. “You say you have always loved me,” he said with automatic masculine logic. “Why, in heaven’s name, didn’t you accept me the first time?”
“I couldn’t be sure—that you really loved me—you seemed to me to be taken by surprise. Besides, I think I wanted to punish you for not having loved me all that long time. I had to be rude and horrid—it was that or betray myself. I don’t think I ever believed that you really loved me till just now. I don’t believe you knew it yourself.”
“Oh, yes, I did,” he replied grimly. “I was so far gone that I became utterly uninteresting.”
“No—but you made me believe that you were miserable because you had proposed to me impulsively and could not think of a way out of it. My only consolation was that I had refused you. But I was ashamed every time I thought of how I had led you on that day—and I had vowed never to be silly and flirt again. And then—well, it cannot be denied that mother has thrown me at your head, and that made me really hate you at times, so that it was easier to be rude.”
“Your mother was beautifully frank.” Ordham was somewhat confused by the number of apologetic reasons advanced, but wholly happy. They talked more or less wildly for an hour. Then Ordham, hearing the swish of Mrs. Cutting’s gown, stood up, flushed and nervous, but so determined not to look sheepish, that he was as formal as an aged diplomatist when his future mother-in-law took both his hands and looked at him with eyes that were really soft. “Thank heaven!” she said with the simplicity appropriate to great moments. “I know that you will both be happy. And how grateful I am that you have not put off making up your minds any longer. Bobby tells me that I must go to New York. It is imperative. But now I can leave Mabel with you, instead of drying her eyes and distracting her mind for six months, when I should be giving all my attention to business.”
Of course he remained to dinner, and before he left he had another half-hour alone with Mabel. An excellent repast, the interesting conversation of Driscom, whom he now liked as much as he had hated a few hours earlier, unruffled bliss, and the prospect of almost immediate marriage, had clarified and braced his normally acute and steady brain. They were sitting among the fragrant flowers of the balcony when he told her abruptly of his incursion into her private little domain, and added: “As it has excited my curiosity, I may as well tell you at once that I saw several letters from my mother in the drawer of your desk, and ask you to explain. I do not want to be annoyed by petty imaginings. You don’t mind?”
The hand he held had grown cold, but when he turned his head he met suffused and smiling eyes.
“I might as well confess! I wrote to Lady Bridgminster imploring her to withdraw her opposition—not to hate me—I know how great her influence over you is—”
“She has not a particle of influence over me. What did she reply? How enchanting of you!”
“Oh, she was quite nice. I believe she said that she had washed her hands of the matter of your marriage, since you would not marry Lady Rosamond. Should you like to read the letters?” She half rose.