"My dear girl!" said she. She kissed the dear girl on both passive cheeks. Then she inquired: "You've had a letter?" "No," said Muriel. "He asked me." "But, my dear, he hasn't been here for nearly two weeks. It was--let me see--yes, it will be two weeks to-morrow evening." "That was when he asked me, Aunty." Mrs. Newberry's embrace relaxed. She looked hurt. "And you never told me! I think that implies a lack of confidence--a lack of affection, Muriel." "I don't know. I wanted to think it over first." "Think it over! What was there to debate, I should like to know?" "A good deal, it seemed to me; and anyhow, Aunty, I think this is the sort of thing a girl has to decide for herself--if she can." "Where ever did you get such notions? A girl never _can_ decide it for herself." Muriel's answering smile was rueful. "_I_ couldn't, at any rate," she said, "and so, even if I'm late about it, I've come to you." Mrs. Newberry was reassured. After all, the thing had happened; Muriel's future--so we fatuous moderns reason--was at last secured. According to the custom of her time and class, Ethel had always taken it for granted that a poor girl married to a rich man is as safe as a good girl gone to Heaven--and more certainly comfortable. She became radiant. It was necessary only that they make such decent speed as would prevent any other young woman from interfering. "Well," she said, "I'm glad you _have_ come, because, since long engagements aren't fashionable any more, your uncle and I must naturally have all the warning possible--for your uncle will, of course, provide the wedding. I think it had better be next month--yes, next month and at St. Bartholomew's." Muriel's cheek paled. She turned again to the window and looked out. "I don't think you quite understand," she said. "I'm not sure----" "Now, don't be silly," interrupted Mrs. Newberry. "I won't hear any foolish talk about a home wedding or a quiet wedding. It isn't the proper thing for a wedding to be quiet; it isn't natural; besides, you have been living here in your uncle's house, and you owe something to his position." "That's not it." Muriel's back was still turned; her eyes were fixed on the cold rain that was falling. "Well," asked Mrs. Newberry, in complete bewilderment, "then what _is_ it?" "I am not sure that I love Mr. Stainton." The plump Mrs. Newberry again rose. Her face was a pretty blank. "Love?" she repeated, as if she had heard that word somewhere before but could not for the life of her recall where. "_Love_, did you say?" "Yes," replied Muriel; "I don't know whether I love him." "What next?" asked Ethel. "Love? You don't know whether you love him! The idea! You're too young to know anything about it, my child. Of course you love him. You're just too young to know it, that's all." Muriel displayed a wistful face. "I'm eighteen." "A mere baby." "Then I should think I was too young to marry." "_Do_ you think so?" "No, only----"