"There's nothing to wait for. I've got enough money, and the house in Stratton Street is literally gaping for you to go and live in it. It seems to me that the only thing to be done is to get a ring and a license." "But we can't be married till father knows; we can't, indeed." "All right, dear; we'll send him a cable. We might send your mother a telegram at the same time--what do you think?" Margaret considered for a moment. "How soon, do you think, I could give up the theatre?" she asked. "Why, this very minute, of course. I'll write to Farley before I start, and so shall you, and tell him all about it." "But can he get any one in my place immediately?" "Of course; probably a whole crowd are waiting round the stage door ready to jump into it. There are too many people in the world who want to work--too many who must work," he added, with a shade of seriousness; "but what about your mother?" "Why, if I really needn't go to the theatre any more, we won't telegraph. I should so love to tell her. She liked you, you know--she liked you so much. I'll go home to-morrow and tell her." "Good! good! But what about Hannah; will she let you in?" "I think she will, when she knows that I am not going to be an actress--and about this." "She might think you are doing worse." "No, she won't." "Well, that's settled; now we'll send the cable. Let's write it out here, then we need only copy it out in the office. Where is your paper?" he asked, impulsively, going to the writing-table. "Now then. '_Carringford to Vincent. May I marry Margaret?_--_Tom._' Will that do?" he asked. "Splendidly," she laughed. "I think you ought to send one on your own account." "Yes, yes," she cried, joyfully; so a second cable was written. "'_Vincent to Vincent. Please say yes._--_Margaret._' Will that do?" she echoed. "Splendid!" he echoed back. "What a glorious girl you are, Margey--your mother called you Margey, you know. I think I should like to send one to your mother, not telling her, of course, but as a sort of preface--enough to make her guess something." He considered for a moment and then he wrote. '_Tom Carringford sends his love to you._' "It shall go as if it were a little message flying out of space." He stopped and considered again. "I should like the Lakemans to know before I get there. I have telegraphed already to say that I start to-night; but if Lena's very ill, it looks rather cruel to burst upon them with news of happiness." "Must they be told at once?" Margaret asked. For some reason she dreaded their knowing.