She looked at him then, a light in her eyes, the charm of her face, so delicate, so elusive, lending it a peculiar softness and glow.
“I don’t want you to go without me; but you must give me a little time. Why, Arthur, I was working on wedding-finery when you came in!” she admitted with a shy little laugh, glancing at the mass of fluff and lace in the basket beside her.
“You don’t need it. You’re too charming for finery. Diane”—he caught her hands again and drew her, half resisting, toward him—“make it Wednesday at the latest!”
She shook her head.
“Shocking! I couldn’t!”
Then something in his look, in the troubled, handsome face bending toward her, swept away her scruples. If she meant to marry him at all, why quibble for delay, why beg off? She softened, and he read her yielding in her eyes.
“Wednesday?” he repeated eagerly.
“Wednesday week,” she corrected.
Nor could he coax her to advance that day. She declared that she was ashamed of such haste. They might as well run away and be done with it!
“That would be heavenly—no fuss, no feathers! I’m ready. Will you come, Diane? There’s a parson across the road!”