Glances were exchanged, quick but reassuring.
Lancelot said, "There's a ripping cake. Mr. Urquhart would like some, I bet you."
Lucy said, "He can't have any cake just yet." Upon which remark she avoided James's eye, and eyeglass, with great care. But on a swift afterthought she stooped and kissed Lancelot.
EPILOGUE
Really, the only fact I feel called upon to add is the following announcement, culled from a fashionable newspaper.
"On the 3rd June," we read, "at —— Onslow Square, to Mr. and Mrs. James Adolphus Macartney, a daughter."
That ought to do instead of the wedding bells once demanded by the average reader. Let it then stand for the point of my pair's pilgrimage.
I promised a romantic James and have given you a sentimental one. It is a most unfortunate thing that it should be thought ridiculous for a man to fall in love with his wife, for his wife to fall in love with him; and we have to thank, I believe, the high romanticks for it. They must have devilry, it seems, or cayenne pepper. But I say, Scorn not the sentimental, though it be barley-sugar to ambrosia, a canary's flight to a skylark's. Scorn it not; it's the romantic of the unimaginative; and if it won't serve for a magic carpet, it makes a useful anti-macassar.