“You needn’t hold me off, darling. But it’s such a short time. And there’s nothing in the world as wise as to seize the cup of joy when it’s full. There’s an undiscoverable leak in that cup and it empties if you dawdle over it. It may be accident--death--or human perversity--almost anything. I’m so sure our cup is full now that I want to drink it with you quickly. Listen--there’s nothing in the world against it except that some person whom neither of us cares about at all might say we weren’t considered--were too hasty. For the sake of that obscure person whom we don’t know, you aren’t going to send me away, are you?” She was hesitant. “It doesn’t trouble you longer that I came out here to see Margaret Duffield, does it?” “A little,” she answered honestly. “It shouldn’t. It shouldn’t and it mustn’t. With her it was all argument and all tangle--with you it was like a flash of light.” “I don’t want her to matter,” said Freda, “I always have wanted my love to come like this. Without question. Fearlessly.” “Then you will, darling?” “I don’t care about the rest, but there’s father. I hate to not tell him.” “Will he hate it when you’re happy?” “He’ll love it.” “Then--listen. I shall tell him--later. I’ll tell him that I always prayed that when I married I wouldn’t have to have the eyes of the world on the coming of my bride. That my wedding should be secret and holy. If we could tell him without the rest knowing--but he would tell your mother, wouldn’t he?” “And mother would want a wedding,” said Freda, a little drearily. He leaned across to touch her hand. “You don’t think it’s furtive--clandestine?” “Oh, no!” “Do you want me to go?” “No--” “I must go on, you see--those damned lectures. I must have the money. And I must go through to Spokane. I could ask you to wait until I got back but, darling--what’s the use of waiting? What’s the use of waiting? We could be married to-morrow--and have Sunday together. Then--then--we could wait for each other. Or you could come with me--” “No, we couldn’t, Gregory. It’s too expensive. You know we couldn’t.” She was so definite that his face fell. At the sight of it she smiled and reassured him. “I shan’t mind a bit not having any money.” “Money’s a nuisance. But I want enough of it--I’ll earn enough of it to take you to Ireland with me, when I come back in six weeks.” Her forehead was a little knit. He went on eagerly. “I’ve never been so practical. You wouldn’t believe what a man of affairs--American affairs--I’ve been. I looked up the name of a little hamlet where we could go to-morrow afternoon and be married by sundown. And then, sweetheart, an eternity of a day before us--and immortality to look forward to.” “And no one to know.” “Unless you wish it--no one.” “I don’t wish it. It sounds dangerous and mad--but if I don’t, Gregory, I know I’ll regret it all the rest of my life. It’s my chance to prove life. It’s not as if I had the faintest doubt of you--”