"I know, my dear," I said. "The car is at your service."
"Oh, no! I'll go by train."
"You'll do as you're told, young woman, and go by car."
At this rubbishy speech, the tears, for the first time, came into her eyes. She pulled down my shoulders—I am rather lank and tall—and kissed me.
"You're a dear," she said, and went off in search of Barbara.
I returned to my library, rang the bell, and gave orders for the chauffeur to stand at Mrs. Boldero's disposal. Then I sat down at a loose end, very much like a young professional man, doctor or estate-agent, waiting for the next client. And like the young professional man at a loose end, I made a pretence of looking through papers. Presently I became aware that I only had to open a window in order to summon a couple of clients at once. For there in the gathering November dusk and in the rain—it had ceased pouring, but it was drizzling, and therefore it was rain—I saw our pair of delectable savages strolling across the wet, sodden lawn, in loverlike proximity, for all the world as though it were a flowery mead in May. I might have summoned them, but it would have been an unprofessional thing to do. Instead, I drew my curtains and turned on the light, and continued to wait. I waited a long time. At last Barbara rushed in.
"Doria's ready."
"You've heard all about it?" She nodded. "I said there would be no marriage," I remarked blandly.
"You said she wouldn't marry him. I said she would. And so she would, if he had let her. I know you're prepared to argue," she said, rather excitedly, "but it's no use. I was right all the time."
I yielded.