"Sweetheart! Why shouldn't we?... The Judge will be a witness, it will be all right, your parents won't mind very much, will they?... I hate a show wedding anyhow, a lot of people round.... And I don't want to wait any longer, Mary—I want it over and settled, and to be alone with you.... We can stay here a few days.... Do, please, Mary—"
He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves.
"We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly.
"No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly.
"Yes, a letter!"
She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that absent gaze.
"You will, Mary?" he breathed.
She did not answer, hardly heard.
She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them—he had rebuffed her. None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her....
They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have to go through it. Anyhow—