"All right. I will marry you," she said coldly. "And now let me turn on the gas." She struck a match, and in the wavering glow she saw his form loom over her. "No," she half screamed; "don't kiss me. Not yet. Not yet. People can see through the window." "Leave 'em stare so hard as they've a mind to. What do it matter to we?" "No, don't be silly. I don't want to start kissing. Besides, I must run. I'm late for the theater." "Darn the theater. You don't want to go there no more." "I must give a fortnight's notice." Mr. Z. Trewhella, a little more than fox, perceived it would not take much to make her repudiate her promise and wisely did not press the point. "Will I putt 'ee down along a little bit of the road?" he asked. "No, no. I'm in a hurry. Not to-night." Presently, in the amber fog that on wet nights suffuses the inside of a tram, Jenny rode down towards the Tube station, picturing to herself her little sister in a garden of flowers. Chapter XXXV: _The Marriage of Columbine_ Trewhella spent in Cornwall the fortnight during which Jenny insisted on dancing out her contract with the Orient. The withdrawal, ostensibly to prepare his mother for the wife's arrival, was a wise move on his part, for Jenny was left merely with the contemplation of marriage as an abstract condition of existence undismayed by the presence of a future husband whom she did not regard with any affection. She did not announce her decision to the girls in the theater until the night before her departure. At once ensued a chorus of surprise, encouragement, speculation and good wishes. "If I don't like Cornwall," Jenny declared, "I shall jolly soon come back to dear old London. Don't you worry yourselves." "Write to us, Jenny," the girls begged. "Rather." "And mind you come and see us first time you get to London." "Of course I shall," she promised and, perhaps to avoid tears, ran quickly down the court, with her box of grease paints underneath her arm. "Good luck," cried all the girls, waving farewell in silhouette against the dull orange opening of the stage door. "See you soon," she called back over her shoulder. "Good-bye, all." Another chorus of good-byes traveled in pursuit along the darkness as, leaving behind her a legend of mirth, an echo of laughter, she vanished round the corner.