"Allow you! It's exactly what I'd like most _immensely_. She's all ready for you--I'll have my things off her in no time--catch the eight-ten to-night and go straight to congratulate Uncle Elbert. How great to see him so happy! I 'll run right down to the yacht this minute and attend to it." "There is nothing to attend to ... is there? You said she was all ready. Of course we could not let you--leave her. We could not go in the yacht ... unless you will go with us." But speech stuck in his throat like a bone gone wrong. She would get no help from him; that was evident. If suffering had wrought miracles of absolution, she alone could make that plain. "You came to Hunston ... to take me to my father ... didn't you?" said Mary Carstairs. "Why ... won't you do it?" A fugitive wave of pallor ran up her cheek, leaving its white trail behind. She knew now that she had said the last word to him that she could say, and that if he wanted to go away, he must go. The heavy curtain of her lashes fell, veiling her eyes ... but, as it chanced, fell slowly. He had turned at her words, very quickly; he caught the curtain half-drawn, and a look come and gone like an arrow had shot through those windows into the lit place beyond. "I could only do that," he began unsteadily--"I--you know how it is with me.... To the longest day I live--I'll love you ... with every breath I draw. I could not do that--unless ... Will you marry me?" The stillness about them then was like a tangible thing, measureless and infinite. But into it faltered almost at once that voice like silver bells. "If you're _perfectly sure_ you want me to," said Mary faintly. Her eyes met his in a wonderful union, divinely sealed the promise of her lips, stamped it forever and ever with a heavenly stamp.... The bay horses curveted and pranced, the coachman sprang to his seat, a big red motor backed, snorted, honked, and whizzed past them. The speechmaking was over. The little line of gay carriages, breaking itself into pieces, was maneuvering for rights of way homeward. The bay horses, turning, too, were caught in the press and must needs go slowly: so that the whole vivid pageant might have been but the ordered setting for this moment--for Laurence Varney and the girl he had sworn to carry home to her father.... In the square, the lingering crowd, attuned to cheering, was summoning one name after another to noisy felicitation. Out of the tumult rose one persistent voice, clamoring a changeless request. Yes, it was Hackley's voice, very near, evidently on his own front porch, and he was saying over and over: "Lemme ask you! Lemme ask you!" And about the moment the victoria--Tommy's victori' (Tommy himself, if the truth be known, riding snugly on the back springs at that very moment)--got safely put about, Mr. Hackley secured what public notice he required and divulged the nature of his request. "_Fellers, what's the matter with Varney_?"