“Yes, there’ll be lots of trouble otherwise. Go away, leave for somewhere or other to-morrow. You can think of plenty of explanations. I believe it’s this place as much as anything else that’s responsible for the whole business. Once you’re clear of this you’ll see the whole thing quite plainly and thank God for your escape. But if, after knowing a girl a week, you marry her in defiance of everyone wiser and better than yourself, you’ll rue the day, and be tied to some one for life, some one of whom you really know nothing.” “Poor old Maradick!” Tony laughed. “You’ve got to talk like that, I know; it’s your duty so to do. But I never knew anyone say it so reluctantly; you’re really as keen about it as I am, and you’d be most frightfully sick if I went off to-morrow. Besides, it’s simply not to be thought of. I’d much rather marry her and find it was a ghastly mistake than go through life feeling that I’d missed something, missed the best thing there was to have. It’s missing things, not doing them wrong, that matters in life.” “Then you’ll go on anyhow?” said Maradick. “Anyhow,” said Tony, “I’m of age. I’ve got means of my own, and if she loves me then nothing shall stop me. If necessary, we’ll elope.” “Dear me,” said Maradick, shaking his head, “I really oughtn’t to be in it at all. I told you so from the beginning. But as you’ll go on whether I’m there or no, I suppose I must stay.” The night had influenced Mrs. Lester. She sat under the birches in the shadow with her blue dress like a cloud about her. She felt very romantic. The light in Tony’s eyes at dinner had been very beautiful. Oh, dear! How lovely it would be to get some of that romance back again! During most of the year she was an exceedingly sane and level-headed person. The Lesters were spoken of in London as an ideal couple, as fond of each other as ever, but with none of that silly sentiment. And so for the larger part of the year it was; and then there came suddenly a moment when she hated the jog-trot monotony of it all, when she would give anything to regain that fire, that excitement, that fine beating of the heart. To do her justice, she didn’t in the least mind about the man, indeed she would have greatly preferred that it should have been her husband; she was much more in love with Romance, Sentiment, Passion, fine abstract things with big capital letters, than any one person; only, whilst the mood was upon her, she must discover somebody. It was no use being romantic to the wind or the stars or the trees.