‘An old woman verily. A girl as fresh in youthful purity as if her cheek still wore the baby-bloom of seventeen summers! But have you forgotten something else that is to happen next May, Lina—our wedding?’ ‘There has been nothing fixed about that,’ faltered Madoline ‘except, perhaps, that it is to be this year. My father has not said a word as to the actual time, and I know that he wants to keep me as long as he can.’ ‘And I think you know that I want to have you at the Abbey as soon as I can. I am getting to loathe that big house, for lack of your presence to transform it into a home. We must be married in May, dearest. Remember we have only been waiting for you to come of age, and for all dry-as-dust questions of property to be settled. If we had been Darby the gardener and Joan the dairymaid, we should have been married four years ago, shouldn’t we, Lina?’ ‘I suppose so,’ she answered, blushing, and taking refuge in the occupation of pouring out the tea, adjusting the egg-shell cups and saucers, the slender little rat-tailed spoons, all the dainty affectations and quaintnesses of high-art tea-drinking, ‘Darby and Joan are always so imprudent.’ ‘Yes, but they are often happy. They marry foolishly, and perhaps starve a little after marriage; but they wed while the first bloom is on their love. Come, Lina, say that we shall be married early in May.’ ‘I can promise nothing without my father’s consent. My aunt was suggesting that Daphne and I should be married on the same day.’ ‘Did she?’ asked Gerald, his head bent, his hands engaged with his cup and saucer. ‘Two victims led to the altar: Iphigenia and Polyxena, and no likelihood of a hind being substituted for either young lady. Don’t you think there is a dash of vulgarity in a double wedding: a desire to make the very most of the event, to intensify the parade: two sets of bridesmaids, two displays of presents, two honeymoon departures: all the tawdriness and show and artificiality of a modern wedding exaggerated by duplication?’ ‘I think that is rather Daphne’s idea. She begs that she and Edgar may be married very quietly, without fuss of any kind.’ ‘I had no idea that Daphne was capable of such wisdom. I thought she would have asked for four-and-twenty bridesmaids,’ said Gerald with a cynical laugh. ‘She is much more sensible than you have ever given her credit for being,’ answered Madoline, a little offended at his tone. ‘She has behaved sweetly since her engagement.’ ‘And—you—think—she—is—happy?’ How slowly he said this, stirring his tea all the while, as if the words were spoken mechanically, his thoughts being wide-away from them. ‘Do you suppose I should be satisfied if I were not sure, in my own mind, of her happiness? How can she fail to be happy? She is engaged to a thoroughly good man, who adores her; and if—if she is not quite as deep in love with him as he is with her, there is no doubt that her affection for him will increase and strengthen every day.’