"I couldn't, at any rate," she said, "and so, even if I'm late about it, I've come to you."
Mrs. Newberry was reassured. After all, the thing had happened; Muriel's future—so we fatuous moderns reason—was at last secured. According to the custom of her time and class, Ethel had always taken it for granted that a poor girl married to a rich man is as safe as a good girl gone to Heaven—and more certainly comfortable. She became radiant. It was necessary only that they make such decent speed as would prevent any other young woman from interfering.
"Well," she said, "I'm glad you have come, because, since long engagements aren't fashionable any more, your uncle and I must naturally have all the warning possible—for your uncle will, of course, provide the wedding. I think it had better be next month—yes, next month and at St. Bartholomew's."
Muriel's cheek paled. She turned again to the window and looked out.
"I don't think you quite understand," she said. "I'm not sure——"
"Now, don't be silly," interrupted Mrs. Newberry. "I won't hear any foolish talk about a home wedding or a quiet wedding. It isn't the proper thing for a wedding to be quiet; it isn't natural; besides, you have been living here in your uncle's house, and you owe something to his position."
"That's not it." Muriel's back was still turned; her eyes were fixed on the cold rain that was falling.
"Well," asked Mrs. Newberry, in complete bewilderment, "then what is it?"
"I am not sure that I love Mr. Stainton."
The plump Mrs. Newberry again rose. Her face was a pretty blank.