"Oh—very well." Rev. George Heathcote, adjusting his glasses firmly, brought out from his pocket a black-covered book. Shuffling the leaves till he found the desired place, he closed the book, slipping his finger between the leaves; lowered it till it rested on his knee; and looked at Sir William, who looked back at him a little challengingly. After a moment of this scrutiny, the clergyman arose, went over beside his friend, and laid a hand on Ware's shoulder.
"Dear old man," he said, "I do want you to consider this thing very seriously. You've always been a bit of a boy, you know. I, of course, know the fancies you've petted about marriage—I always thought they were merely fancies, or I should have tried harder to reason you out of them. Now, is your mind absolutely, irrevocably, and after due deliberation made up? By the bye, have you thought of—your mother?"
Sir William Ware stood up, settling his coat about his fine spare shoulders.
"I have thought about everything—considered everything, George," he said. "I know you mean well, old chap," Ware, in turn, put his hand on his old schoolmate's shoulder, "but really, I don't care to discuss the matter any further, even with you. Besides, all this is, as you must understand, very embarrassing, for Miss Nixon." He turned to Daisy. "Come, dear," he said.
Daisy Nixon stood up; and, in the presence of two decorously expressionless figures of the cafe staff—the manager and one of the waiters—as witnesses, she was presently by brief and grave ritual united in the bond of holy matrimony to Sir William Ware, Baronet.
As the ceremony ended, and she stood awed and a little pale, Sir William approached and, very softly and tenderly, put his hands upon her shoulders and stooped to kiss her. He would have kissed her forehead; but Daisy, lifting her face with an altogether sweet gesture of yielding, gave him her lips.
His countenance, upon which the girl's eyes had continued to look as it approached near to hers for the caress, had not shown, in its nearness, any grossness of line or texture, any twitching muscle betraying some unexplainable dark trait. It was masculine, thoroughbred, honorable-eyed and—clean. It was pleasant and thoughtful. Face and figure were full of quiet mastery, yet had no outward suggestion nor pose nor plebeian ostentation of "masterfulness."