Any observer would shrewdly have prophesied that whether or not she loved him as yet in the ordinary sense, she was pretty sure to do so in time.
One evening just before dusk they had taken a rather long walk together, and for a short cut homeward passed through the shrubberies of Hintock House—still deserted, and still blankly confronting with its sightless shuttered windows the surrounding foliage and slopes. Grace was tired, and they approached the wall, and sat together on one of the stone sills—still warm with the sun that had been pouring its rays upon them all the afternoon.
“This place would just do for us, would it not, dearest,” said her betrothed, as they sat, turning and looking idly at the old facade.
“Oh yes,” said Grace, plainly showing that no such fancy had ever crossed her mind. “She is away from home still,” Grace added in a minute, rather sadly, for she could not forget that she had somehow lost the valuable friendship of the lady of this bower.
“Who is?—oh, you mean Mrs. Charmond. Do you know, dear, that at one time I thought you lived here.”
“Indeed!” said Grace. “How was that?”
He explained, as far as he could do so without mentioning his disappointment at finding it was otherwise; and then went on: “Well, never mind that. Now I want to ask you something. There is one detail of our wedding which I am sure you will leave to me. My inclination is not to be married at the horrid little church here, with all the yokels staring round at us, and a droning parson reading.”
“Where, then, can it be? At a church in town?”
“No. Not at a church at all. At a registry office. It is a quieter, snugger, and more convenient place in every way.”
“Oh,” said she, with real distress. “How can I be married except at church, and with all my dear friends round me?”