He opened his door and called Mary gently. As she came in, she asked with surprise, "Where's Laurence?"
"He went off for a little walk.... Sit down, my dear, I want to talk to you."
Mary, with a startled and reluctant look, sat down on the sofa. She disliked the atmosphere of this room, not so much the tobacco-flavour as the flavour of the confessional. She was used to hearing low-toned murmurs coming from it through the closed door, and sometimes sounds of pain and weeping. And now she had an instant feeling that she was in the confessional, as had happened a few times before during her girlhood, occasions of which she retained a definite impression of fear.
"Mary, are you sure you're doing right?" asked the doctor abruptly, yet gently.
"Right?" she murmured, defensively.
"About marrying now. Laurence tells me you are ready to marry him, at once."
"Yes, I am ready," said Mary, with a forced calmness. "We have been engaged four years. I always expected to marry him when he came back."
"And you haven't changed your mind at all, in those four years? You were very young, you know—it would be natural that you should change."
"No—I haven't changed."
"In some ways, you have.... But you mean not in that way. You still love Laurence, as much as ever?"