Mary, however, was a person to keep her own counsel. During her father's lifetime, when much responsibility and many duties had claimed her, she had certainly doubted more than once the possibility of Mr. Apswith's ultimate success; there was a touch of the Diana in Mary, and a great deal of the Minerva. But, since her father's death, since Peter's bridal home-coming, Mary often found herself thinking of Mr. Apswith, her fundamental sympathy with him on all things, her real loneliness and his devotion. They had corresponded for years, and often saw one another. Familiarity had not bred contempt, but rather strengthened mutual trust and dependence. A certain tone of late in Mary's letters had called forth from Mr. Apswith a most domineering and determined love-letter. Mary had yielded to it--gladly, as she now realized. Yet her heart yearned over Peter. He got up now, and kissed her. "Mary, my dear girl"--he could hardly find words--"may you be very, very happy. You deserve it; so does he." Neither touched, as they talked of the wonderful decision, on the fact that by it Peter would be left to the solitary companionship of his wife; it was not a fact to be touched on. Mary longed to fling her arms around his neck and cry on his shoulder. Her happiness made his missing it so apparent, but she shrank from emphasizing their mutual knowledge. "We must ask Apswith down at once," said Odd. "It's a busy session, but he can manage a few days." "Well, Peter, that is hardly necessary. I shall go up to London within the week. Lady Mainwaring asked me to go to Paris with her on the 20th. She stops in London for three days. I shall see Mr. Apswith there, get my trousseau in Paris, and be married in July, in about six weeks' time. Delay would be rather silly--he has waited so long." "You take my breath away, Mary. I am selfish, I own. I don't like to lose you." "It isn't losing me, Peter dear. We shall see a lot of one another. I shall be married from here, of course. Mr. Apswith will stop with the Mainwarings." When Mary left him, Peter resumed his seat, and even went on writing for a few moments. Then he put down the pen and stretched himself, as one does when summoning courage. He did not lack courage, yet he owned to himself that Mary's prospective departure sickened him. Her grave, even character had given him a sense of supporting sympathy; he needed a sympathetic atmosphere; and Alicia's influence was a very air-pump. Poor Alicia, thought Odd. The sense of his own despair struck him as rather unmanly. He looked out of the open window at the lawn, its cool, green stretches whitened with the dew; the rooks were cawing in the trees, and his thoughts went back suddenly to a certain morning in London, not two months ago, just after the baby's death and just before Alicia's departure for the Riviera.