Meanwhile Paragot and Joanna continued the romance of long ago. They walked together in the garden like lovers, his arm around her waist, her delicate head lightly leaning on his shoulder. Once when I made my presence known, he withdrew his arm, but Joanna laughingly replaced it.
"What does it matter? Asticot is in our confidence," she remarked. "Isn't he going to be your best man? You will bring him over for the wedding, Gaston."
"You cling to the idea of being married in Melford?" he asked.
"Of course."
"By that dry, grey-whiskered gentleman who treats me as if I were a youth he would like to prepare for confirmation? And all these dreadful people to look on? My dear, doesn't the thought of it chill you into the corpse of a Melfordian?"
"I should have imagined that so long as we were married the 'how' would not matter to you."
"Quite so," said he. "Why does the 'how' matter so much to you?"
"It is different," said Joanna. "It is right for me to be married here."
"We must do what is right at all costs," assented my master in an ironical note, which she was quick to detect. She swerved from his encircling arm.
"You would not be married under a bush like a beggar?" she quoted.