"And you do not want to go to London?"
"Not unless you turn me out of doors."
"My darling!" he said. And so we became engaged there upon the snow.
How wonderful the sun rose that morning. How I walked home through Paradise, forgetting that there was such a thing as suffering in the world. How the girls hugged me when they knew all. How Mrs. Hollingford smiled upon us. And how sweet the honey and rice-cakes tasted at breakfast. It was arranged that, all things considered, we had better not be married for a year.
I remember our gathering round the fire that evening, the curtains unclosed, the mild moonshine behind the window, the room half black shade and half red light, the dear faces beaming round. That evening I wrote my letter to Grace Tyrrell to say that I should not go to London. That evening, also, there came a letter from Mr. Hill to John, saying that he hoped to arrive at the Hall on the morrow or next day. At tea we talked about Rachel Leonard. Thinking of her, the scene at the party came vividly back—the occasion on which I had defended Mr. Hollingford so hotly; and also my conversation with Grace Tyrrell on the subject in the carriage coming home. After musing a little while, I said:
"John, are you quite sure that you never met Miss Leonard when you were abroad?"
"Quite," said John, looking at me curiously. "Why do you ask me that question so often, Margery?"
"Have I asked it often?" I said, "I don't remember; but I fancied from her manner that she knew something about you."
"It is not likely," said John, "for I know nothing about her." And so this matter dropped.