Eric raptly assented. I had always liked the boy. His whole mind was on Lisa and yet, though from the edges of his consciousness, he had an exquisite manner.
“At all events,” said I when presently I left Lisa in the flowered chintz guest room, “let us lunch first and be married afterward. Whatever happens you must have one of Nichola’s salads.”
I hurried downstairs longing to find Pelleas and to plan with him how we were to bring it all about; but Pelleas was still in conference with that young lover and they were walking up and down the path, heads bent, brows grave, as if the matter were actually one requiring the weightiest consideration. I stood for a moment at the hall window to watch them, with all my heart longing to cry out: Never mind the reasons. Look at the roses. It is perfectly easy to see what they think.
Instead I went to the kitchen to say a word about luncheon. And the day was so sunny and the guests at luncheon were so to my liking and my heart was so full of their story that, as well as for a more practical reason, I was obliged to tell something of it to Nichola.
Nichola was washing green leaves, and these, tender and curled in her withered hands, were as incongruous as a flush I had once detected on her withered cheek. In her starched print gown Nichola looked that morning like some one cut from stiff paper.
“Nichola,” said I, “I think we may have a wedding here this afternoon.”
Instantly her little deep-set eyes became quick-lidded with disapproval.
“It is by no means certain,” I pursued, “but we hope to have it here. And,” I advanced delicately, “could you possibly have ready for us something frozen and delicious, Nichola? With little cakes? Then you need make no dessert at all for dinner.”
Nichola looked at me doubtfully, pulling down her brown print sleeves over her brown wrists.
“Che!” said she, “if it is a runaway match I cannot do this.”