"Before you go," she said gently, "you might tell me when I was married. After all, it's only natural that I should be a little interested in the matter."
I clutched hold of the gate. Everything except her face had suddenly become dim and distant.
"Do you mean—do you mean to say that it's a mistake?" I gasped.
"There are some people," she answered mischievously, "who say that marriage is always a mistake."
"But George—Barton—Congreve," I stammered.
"You have not got his Christian names quite right," she interrupted. "They are Walter Vernon. I know, you see, because he happens to be my brother-in-law."
"Then you're not married?" I shouted wildly.
"No," she said. "But isn't it a little unnecessary to inform the entire neighbourhood of the fact?"
I laid my head down on the gate, and relieved my feelings in an insane outburst of laughter. When I felt better, I straightened myself and wiped my eyes.
"George is responsible," I said. "He came home yesterday and told me that you were."