“I will,” he agreed, and answered her question: “They’re bride and bridesmaid roses. Appropriate to the occasion.”
Darcy had the grace to blush. “Out of date,” she said hastily.
“What! Already?”
“I’ve changed my mind,” was her calm announcement. “I’ve decided that you’re not my husband.”
“I’ve decided that you’re not my husband”
“Wedded and Parted—by Bertha M. Clay. Who’s the Bertha M. that’s done this thing to me:
“I am. As soon as you left I saw that it wouldn’t fit in at all for us to be married. The servants here probably visit between house and house. And it was bound to come out that I was at the Farmhouse and you at the Bungalow, and—well—don’t you see that would look funny if we were married?”
What Jack Remsen saw was that the girl was like the pinkest of the bridesmaid roses when she blushed, though a sweeter, warmer pink. “Didn’t I go to Montreal, then?”
“No. Though you may have to, later. There’s some legal formality to be gone through yet before we can be married.”