Behind the counter a woman of about thirty years of age sat on a low stool. She was knitting quietly, and showed no sign whatever of the excitement which usually fills a house on the day of a wedding. She looked up when Miss Clarence entered the shop. Then she rose and laid aside her knitting. She had clear, grey eyes, an unemotional, self-confident face, and a lean figure. “I came to see Miss Mary Nally,” said Miss Clarence. “Perhaps if she isn’t too busy I could have a chat with her.” “Mary Nally’s my name,” said the young woman quietly. Miss Clarence was surprised at the calm and self-possession of the woman before her. She had, in the early days of her career as a journalist, seen many brides. She had never seen one quite so cool as Mary Nally. And this woman was going to marry a king! Miss Clarence, startled out of her own self-control, blurted out more than she meant to say. “But--but aren’t you going to be married?” she said. Mary Nally smiled without a sign of embarrassment. “Maybe I am,” she said, “some day.” “To-day,” said Miss Clarence. Mary Nally, pulling aside a curtain of pendent shirts, looked out through the window of the little shop. She knew that the post boat had arrived at the pier and that her visitor, a stranger on the island, must have come in her. She wanted to make sure that Michael Kane was on board. “I suppose now,” she said, “that it was Michael Kane told you that. And it’s likely old Andrew that he said I was marrying.” “He said you were going to marry the King of the island,” said Miss Clarence. “Well,” said Mary Nally, “that would be old Andrew.” “But isn’t it true?” said Miss Clarence. A horrible suspicion seized her. Michael Kane might have been making a fool of her. “Michael Kane would tell you lies as quick as look at you,” she said; “but maybe it wasn’t lies he was telling this time. Come along now and we’ll see.” She lifted the flap of the counter behind which she sat and passed into the outer part of the shop. She took Miss Clarence by the arm and they went together through the door. Miss Clarence expected to be led down to the pier. It seemed to her plain that Mary Nally must want to find out from Michael whether he had told this outrageous story or not. She was quite willing to face the old boatman. Mary Nally would have something bitter to say to him. She herself would say something rather more bitter and would say it more fiercely. Mary turned to the right and walked towards the yellow house with the slate roof. She entered it, pulling Miss Clarence after her. An oldish man, very fat, but healthy looking and strong, sat in an armchair near the window of the room they entered. Round the walls were barrels of porter. On the shelves were bottles of whisky. In the middle of the floor, piled one on top of the other, were three cases full of soda-water bottles. “Andrew,” said Mary Nally, “there’s a young lady here says that you and me is going to be married.”