"I think it's lovely," she murmured.
"Then I'm glad," said Osborn; "if you're glad, I am, you dear, sweet, best girl. But tell me all the doctor said, angel, and just what we're to do and everything."
"We don't do anything till next September."
"Is it to be next September?"
"Yes," said Marie, trembling a little.
Osborn had to tell Desmond Rokeby; he simply couldn't help it. They met at a quick lunch counter, an unusual meeting, for Rokeby lunched almost invariably at his club. As Osborn ate his sandwiches and drank his ale he was looking sideways at Rokeby all the time, and feeling, somehow, how futile he was, how worthless bachelors were to the world; and presently, when the space around them had cleared, and the white-capped server had moved away, he almost whispered:
"I say, Desmond, there's great news at my place."
Rokeby looked into Osborn's eager face.
"I wonder," said he, "if I could give a guess."