“Save yourself, for the love of God! Save yourself and Rube from such a fate!”
Mell glanced about her in terror and confusion, turning red and pale. Gladly would she save herself; but how can a respectable member of good society accept salvation at such a price—the price of being talked about?
“It is too late,” she told her companion, in tones as sorrowful as the wail of a wandering bard in a strange land; “too late! Why, man, the bridal robes are ready, the bridal cake is baked, the bridal guests are 315 bidden; and would you have me, at this last minute, turn Rube into a laughing-stock, a by-word on every idle lip, a man to be pointed out upon the streets, a man to be jeered at in the crowd? Would you have me do that?”
“Yes. That is not a happy lot, but it soon passes, and is better than being duped for life and wretched for life.”
Mell averted her face. She seemed striving for words:
“I don’t see why Rube should be so unhappy as you seem determined to make him. Even granting that he knew that I do not feel romantically towards him, as I have felt towards you—”
“Have felt?” interposed her listener.
She waived his question aside and proceeded:
“Still there is a love born of habit and propinquity, and that will come to my rescue. Rube is a splendid fellow! I respect him. I honor his character, and I could be happy with him if—”
“Well,” said Jerome, huskily, “go on.”