Life is so complicated a game that the devices of skill are liable to be defeated at every turn by air-blown chances incalculable as the descent of thistledown.—George Eliot's Romola.
During Jack's visit to her father's office, Nina passed the time in desultory shopping until she met him on King Street.
"I need not ask what your success was," said she, smiling, as she joined him. "Your face shows that clearly enough."
"Nothing less than a dook," groaned Jack, good-humoredly. "He seems to think they can be had at auction sales in England."
"I am glad he refused," said Nina, "because his consent would delay my whims. We have done our duty in asking him, and now I am going to marry you to-morrow, Jack."'
"To-morrow?"
"Yes, I am afraid, dear Jack, that if I allowed the marriage to be put off till next week or longer you might change your mind." She gave Jack a look that disturbed thought. Affection toward him on her part was something so new that this, together with her startling announcement, made it difficult for him accurately to distinguish his head from his heels.
"But I can not leave the bank at a moment's notice."
"No; but you can get your holidays a week sooner. You were going to take them in a week."