“Make a speech, Daughter,” replied Damocles. “Get on a stump and make a blooming speech.”
Both were a little unstrung.
“I must wire this news to Delorme,” said he suddenly. “He’ll be delighted.” Lucillemade no reply.
As they neared the end of the drive and came within sight of the house, the girl whispered:—
“My own pal, Dammy, for always. And you thought I could be engaged to anyone but you. There is no one but you in the world, dear. It would be quite empty if you left it. Don’t worry about ways and means and things, Dam, I shall enjoy waiting for you—twenty years.”
He thought of that, later.
On the morrow of that incredible day, Damocles de Warrenne sprang from his bed at sunrise and sought the dew-washed garden below the big south terrace.
The world contained no happier man. Sunrise in a glorious English summer and a grand old English garden, on the day after the Day of Days. He trod on air as he lived over again every second of that wonderful over-night scene, and scarcely realized the impossible truth.
Lucille loved him, as a lover! Lucille the alter ego, the understanding, splendid friend; companion in play and work, in idle gaiety and serious consideration; the bon camarade, the real chum and pal.
Life was a Song, the world a Paradise, the future a long-drawn Glory.