She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled faintly.
"What an idea!... It's time to go down now—"
"Yes, but—tell me.... Tomorrow?"
He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by it—it seemed reckless and adventurous to her—an elopement!
"I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate tenderness.
She smiled mistily at him.
At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at the play—it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the person going through this experience—it seemed to be happening to somebody else. That glass of golden wine—never had Mary Lowell tasted anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide was taking her....
The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night.
"The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.