One August evening, when it was late enough for her to be conscious that the nights were drawing in, she was returning from a happy hour spent with her lover. It now wanted but a week to their marriage; their hearts were delirious with happiness.
"Don't you miss all the bridesmaids and all the usual thing-uma-jigs of a wedding?" he had asked her.
"Not a bit."
"Sure, darling?"
"Quite. I only want one thing. So long as I get that, nothing else can possibly matter."
"And that?"
"You," she had replied, at which Perigal had said after a moment or two of silence:
"I will, I really will do all I know to make my treasure of a little Mavis happy."
Mavis was walking home with a light step and a lighter heart: more than one red-cheeked, stolid, Wiltshire man and woman turned to look after the trimly-built, winsome girl, who radiated distinction and happiness as she walked.
A familiar voice sounded in Mavis's ear. "At last," it said heartfully.