“Who?”
“That fellow who hit Boxall on the head with the bag of soot.”
“It’s like a dream,” she murmured. “Do you know, Dicky, I don’t think I was really in love with you this morning—it has all come with a rush—this is the real thing.”
“The only thing!” murmured Dicky, speaking into the back of her hair.
“Is my hat straight?” asked Miss Lestrange.
“Perfectly—no, let me tilt it a bit—bless it!—that’s right—to think that it’s mine, and you are mine, and your little boots and every bit of you!”
“You, too,” she said, casting over him a loving glance.
“When it comes to the point,” he said, “I know you’ll be brave. Believe me, it is the only thing to do. I can get a special licence, there will be no difficulty—Aunt Domville will arrange. I’ll write to the Archbishop of Dublin to-day, and his secretary can interview her; it can be done at her house immediately we arrive. We must give a reason for getting a special licence, and the reason I’ll give is that I’m going abroad in a hurry—which,” added Mr Fanshawe, with a grin, “will be the fact, for we’ll go straight to Nice for the honeymoon. Violet, in three days from this you will be my wife.”