“I assure you, dear——”

“Why did you do it?”

The artist rose, walked to the window, looked out on the Square for a moment, extended her hand and laid it gently on Mary's shoulder.

“You've made up your mind to marry this man, honey?”

“I certainly have,” was the emphatic answer.

Jane paused.

“And all in seven days?”

“Seven days or seven years—what does it matter? He's my mate—we love—it's Fate.”

“It's incredible!”

“What's incredible?”