“Bless my soul!” cried Pelleas. “How?”
I told him, quivering with the pleasant occupation of minding somebody else’s affairs. Pelleas listened a little doubtfully at first—I have a suspicion that all men strive to convince you of their superior judgment by doubting, at first, every unusual project; all, that is, save Pelleas, whose judgment is superior. But presently as I talked a light began to break in his face and then he wrinkled his eyes at the corners and I knew that I had won the day.
“Will you, Pelleas?” I cried breathlessly.
“I will,” Pelleas answered magnificently, “if I have to take three egg-phosphates in succession to win his confidence.”
Nichola knew very well that something unusual and delightful was at harbour in the house that afternoon. For Pelleas and I found it impossible to read, and she kept coming in the room and finding us with our heads together. Nichola is one of those who suspect every undertone to mean a gigantic enterprise. I think, moreover, that she believes us wholly capable of turning the drawing-room into a theater with boxes, and presenting a comedy. Ah, well—that we may, as the days grow colourless.
At a little before six o’clock Pelleas set out, I figuratively dancing on the doorstep with excitement.
“Pelleas,” I whispered him in the hall, “don’t you fail! Pelleas, if you fail, attractive as you are, I shall be divorced from you!”
He smiled confidently.
“I feel as if we were eloping ourselves,” he said, “and this is something like.”
Before the clock had gone six Nichola ushered into the drawing-room Cornelia Emmeline Ayres. In one glance I knew that I had not counted on her in vain. To do honour to me she appeared in full regalia of plum colour. But she had been crying all day—I saw that in the same glance, and her attempt to be cheerful in her sadness and shyness went to my heart.