“Emmie, my angel, I don’t understand. What’s that you’re jabbering about serious wishes?”
Then Emmie became entirely her natural self; her gentle eyes filled with tears, and she asked him if it was worth while.
“Emmie, what on earth do you mean?”
“If we marry, won’t it set people talking? Won’t it seem undignified—even a little silly?”
“Oh, Emmie!” He looked at her reproachfully, and said what he used to say in the very beginning of things. “Oh, Emmie, don’t spoil it for me.”
And eagerly and ardently he told her that his real true joy in all the success and praise was derived from the knowledge that she could now openly share everything with him, that he would be able proudly to show her and boast of her to the world not only as his patron and financial supporter, but also as his fiancée.
“I’ve hundreds of people that I want to introduce to you—my fiancée.” He said the word with a poor French accent but an immense relish. “So, no more nonsense, you angel. Tell me you didn’t mean what you said.”
Perhaps she had not really meant it. Or, at any rate, she had meant finally to do whatever he wished. Yielding then to his importunity—as the dear old conventional books used to narrate—she consented to name the day. It was not a far-off day.
He said he would not have a quiet wedding. No, certainly not. It must be a slap-up affair, with a huge reception at the Hyde Park Hotel. She shrank from this fuss, but he wanted it. That was enough for her.
Also he insisted that it should be a marriage by banns.