“Then everything is explained,” said Mary. “Did you ever see me with a toothache? Well, I should advise you not, for it would be our last interview. I will paint it for you after dinner with pure carbolic acid; it’s splendid, that is if you don’t drop any on the patient’s tongue.” Morris answered that he would stick to champagne. Then Mary began to narrate her experiences in the convent in a fashion so funny that the Colonel could scarcely control his laughter, and even Morris, toothache, heartache, and all, was genuinely amused. “Imagine, my dear Morris,” she said, “you know the time I get down to breakfast. Or perhaps you don’t. It’s one of those things which I have been careful to conceal from you, but you will one day, and I believe that over it our matrimonial happiness may be wrecked. Well, at what hour do you think I found myself expected to be up in that convent?” “Seven,” suggested Morris. “At seven! At a quarter to five, if you please! At a quarter to five every morning did some wretched person come and ring a dinner-bell outside my door. And it was no use going to sleep again, not the least, for at half-past five two hideous old lay-sisters arrived with buckets of water—they have a perfect passion for cleanliness—and began to scrub out the cell whether you were in bed or whether you weren’t.” Then she rattled on to other experiences, trivial enough in themselves, but so entertaining when touched and lightened with her native humour, that very soon the evening had worn itself pleasantly away without a single sad or untoward word. “Good night, dear!” said Mary to Morris, who this time managed to embrace her with becoming warmth; “you will come and see me to-morrow, won’t you—no, not in the morning. Remember I have been getting up at a quarter to five for a month, and I am trying to equalise matters; but after luncheon. Then we will sit before a good fire, and have a talk, for the weather is so delightfully bad that I am sure I shan’t be forced to take exercise.” “Very well, at three o’clock,” said Morris, when the Colonel, who had been reflecting to himself, broke in. “Look here, my dear, you must be down to lunch, or if you are not you ought to be; so, as I want to have a chat with you about some of your poor father’s affairs, and am engaged for the rest of the day, I will come over then if you will allow me.” “Certainly, uncle, if you like; but wouldn’t Morris do instead—as representing me, I mean?” “Yes,” he answered; “when you are married he will do perfectly well, but until that happy event I am afraid that I must take your personal opinion.” “Oh! very well,” said Mary with a sigh; “I will expect you at a quarter past one.” CHAPTER XVIII. TWO EXPLANATIONS