“About our marriage?”
“Yes.”
“It is the one dearest wish of my life.”
“Really?”
“Really.”
There was a pause. Mercy’s fingers toyed nervously with the trinkets at her watch-chain. “When would you like it to be?” she said, very softly, with her whole attention fixed on the watch-chain.
She had never spoken, she had never looked, as she spoke and looked now. Horace was afraid to believe in his own good fortune. “Oh, Grace!” he exclaimed, “you are not trifling with me?”
“What makes you think I am trifling with you?”
Horace was innocent enough to answer her seriously. “You would not even let me speak of our marriage just now,” he said.
“Never mind what I did just now,” she retorted, petulantly. “They say women are changeable. It is one of the defects of the sex.”