The Simplicitas question seemed to jump so abruptly upon her that Mame was caught unawares.
It was not that she hadn’t seen it coming. Sooner or later it was bound to arise. But she hadn’t expected the boob to take off quite so soon. Here he was fairly plopping into her pocket, without giving her a chance of making adequate preparation to receive him.
Even at Cowbarn, Iowa, where the roughneck abounds, Bill’s form would have been rated a trifle crude. The question had been half invited, yet certainly she would like to have had a little more in the way of notice. Still there it was. No parrying, no parleying, no evading. Excited she was, but she must pull her fool self together; she must bring her wits into play. This was a matter for now.
Never had she felt so near complete happiness. A big moment. The romance of the circumstances made her feel a wee bit delirious; the pressure of life in her veins was terrific. A spell was in the trees and the mountains; on the heather; on the keep of Dunkeldie; on the moon-haunted lake. Magic had got into her blood.
She must take a pull on herself, she must look around. This was a powerful question. There were many implications. But why bother her head about them, even if at this moment she was capable of doing so, which beyond a doubt she was not.
“Sorry to rush my fences like this.” The voice, deep and level, was very close to her ear. “But we are just made for one another. And I mean to have you.”
“Don’t be too sure of that, honey.” That was the answer she meant to give. Had she not been carried so completely away by the enchantments of that old and wicked moon, it would have been given beyond a doubt. But just now she was not able to do as she liked; that was to say, being half off your balance simply reft you of the power of doing what you didn’t like. It would go to her heart to throw away this golden chance. Empire over oneself would be needed for that. Besides, the trees of the island whispered to her, Mame Durrance, what a fool puss you’ll sure be if you do.
XLI
THE best of times come to an end. And they have a trick of coming to an end abruptly. Such was Mame’s thought, when on the morning of the thirteenth day of Dunkeldie, or to be a little more precise, on the morning after the visit to Prospero’s magic island, there came a knock on her bedroom door, while she was sewing lace on a camisole. Lady Violet entered.
She was a bearer of ill tidings. “We must pack up to-morrow.”