He clasped her tighter and pressed his face against the silken folds of her skirt; drew her down beside him. Mary was thinking, so intently that though she looked straight at him she hardly saw him, did not notice that he was crumpling her dress, her gloves. "We could send a telegram," he murmured eagerly. "No, not a telegram, a letter," said Mary, abstractedly. "Yes, a letter!" She disengaged herself from his clasp, and he let her go, watching her as she went slowly over to the mirror, and smoothed her dress, set her bonnet straight, began again to draw on her gloves, all with that absent gaze. "You will, Mary?" he breathed. She did not answer, hardly heard. She was thinking that this would be an end for her too of a difficult time. It had been hard for her, with her mother especially, who even now was not resigned and went about with a pale set face.... Her father wasn't happy about it either, nobody was, it wasn't a cheerful atmosphere.... They hadn't treated her very well about it. Mr. Robertson too, her pastor, who was to marry them--he had rebuffed her. None of them had smiled on her, had any joy for her.... They would be hurt, of course, her mother would be anyhow. Her mother, she knew, had intended to hold her head high, if the marriage had to be, and to have the customary wedding festivities and not let any outsider know how she felt. But perhaps she would be glad not to have to go through it. Anyhow-- She turned, met Laurence's look of eager suspense and appeal, smiled faintly. "What an idea!... It's time to go down now--" "Yes, but--tell me.... Tomorrow?" He got up and put out his hands to her, grave and tender, as he met her eyes with a new look in them, a kind of timidity, a yielding look. He had not thought she would consent, it had been, he felt, a wild impulse, but behold, she was consenting. Secretly Mary was thrilled by it--it seemed reckless and adventurous to her--an elopement! "I'll take care of you, Mary," murmured Laurence with passionate tenderness. She smiled mistily at him. At dinner she drank a glass of the champagne that Judge Baxter insisted on. The Judge's gaiety and flowery compliments, Laurence's adoring gaze, the novel luxury of the big restaurant and the box afterward at the play--it was like a dream. She did not recognize herself in the person going through this experience--it seemed to be happening to somebody else. That glass of golden wine--never had Mary Lowell tasted anything of the sort, never had she acted irresponsibly.... But it was delicious not to be Mary Lowell.... To let herself go, for once, to feel this abandonment and not to care whither this soft flowing tide was taking her.... * * * * * The Judge was thunderstruck, when Laurence told him, late that night. "The house won't be ready," he murmured feebly.