"Desmond and his wife will gladly do that much for us." He was about to add that his chief friend knew already: but decided that it would be hardly fair on Dick to 'give him away.' "And where did it all happen?" she demanded, dimpling with enjoyment. "In Dalhousie?" "I imagine so." "You mustn't imagine. We must have all the details clear, so as to lie consistently!" "Well then, to account for our abruptness, we'll decide that I lost my heart to you at home, some time ago; and rediscovered you by chance in Dalhousie." She laughed again, from pure exuberance of happiness. "That's capital! I'll explain it all to Mrs Desmond; and she shall do the rest." While they talked, she had succeeded in extricating her rings; and now she dropped them into his open palm:--the gold band of Destiny, and the hoop of sapphires and diamonds that he had chosen with such elaborate care, and presented to her with such awkward, palpitating shyness nearly six years ago. "Put them on, please," she said softly, thrusting out her wedding finger. "'For better for worse; for richer for poorer; in sickness and in health; till death us do part.'" On the last words she lifted her head. He caught the gleam of tears on her lashes, and slipped the ring on to her finger; uttering the triple asseveration with a suppressed fervour rarely to be heard at the altar rails. Then the second hoop was added; and, still keeping possession of the fettered hand, he sat silent a moment, looking down at his achievement with an absurd sense of satisfaction. Quita was looking at it also, wondering if he could hear the hammering of her heart. "Now we are really married," she murmured as simply as a child. "Weren't we before?" he asked, on a note of amusement. "I suppose so. It didn't feel like it." "And does it feel more like it now?" "Not much, yet. But it will, in time." "Yes. In _time_." The pause, and the emphasis smote her. But again she ignored the cloud no bigger than a man's hand; defying its power to veil her sunlight. "The proper thing after a wedding is . . to kiss your wife," she remarked demurely, without looking up. "Is it? I don't remember doing so last time." "You never did; and it's bad luck not to. That's why everything went wrong! You were too shy; and . . your first wife didn't much like that sort of thing." "My second wife will have to put up with it, whether she likes it or not!" he answered, drawing her towards him by dear and delicious degrees. "We won't play fast and loose with our luck this time." An abrupt knock at the door startled her out of his arms; and the curtain was pushed aside by Desmond:--a strangely transfigured Desmond, with set jaw, and desperate eyes. "My dear man . ." Lenox began. But an intuition of catastrophe past the show of speech made him break off short. Then Desmond spoke, in a voice thick and unlike his own. "Sorry to spoil things by interrupting you in this way. But one had to tell you. It's Honor . . ."