“You shall have Pampas Grass,” I declared. And there were moments as we went in imagination about that house together, when my whole being cried out to take her in my arms—now. But I refrained. On that aspect of life I touched very lightly in that talk, very lightly because I had had my lessons. She promised to marry me within two months’ time. Shyly, reluctantly, she named a day, and next afternoon, in heat and wrath, we “broke it off” again for the last time. We split upon procedure. I refused flatly to have a normal wedding with wedding cake, in white favours, carriages and the rest of it. It dawned upon me suddenly in conversation with her and her mother, that this was implied. I blurted out my objection forthwith, and this time it wasn’t any ordinary difference of opinion; it was a “row.” I don’t remember a quarter of the things we flung out in that dispute. I remember her mother reiterating in tones of gentle remonstrance: “But, George dear, you _must_ have a cake—to send home.” I think we all reiterated things. I seem to remember a refrain of my own: “A marriage is too sacred a thing, too private a thing, for this display. Her father came in and stood behind me against the wall, and her aunt appeared beside the sideboard and stood with arms, looking from speaker to speaker, a sternly gratified prophetess. It didn’t occur to me then! How painful it was to Marion for these people to witness my rebellion. “But, George,” said her father, “what sort of marriage do you want? You don’t want to go to one of those there registry offices?” “That’s exactly what I’d like to do. Marriage is too private a thing—” “I shouldn’t feel married,” said Mrs. Ramboat. “Look here, Marion,” I said; “we are going to be married at a registry office. I don’t believe in all these fripperies and superstitions, and I won’t submit to them. I’ve agreed to all sorts of things to please you.” “What’s he agreed to?” said her father—unheeded. “I can’t marry at a registry office,” said Marion, sallow-white. “Very well,” I said. “I’ll marry nowhere else.” “I can’t marry at a registry office.” “Very well,” I said, standing up, white and tense and it amazed me, but I was also exultant; “then we won’t marry at all.” She leant forward over the table, staring blankly. But presently her half-averted face began to haunt me as she had sat at the table, and her arm and the long droop of her shoulder. III The next day I did an unexampled thing. I sent a telegram to my uncle, “_Bad temper not coming to business_,” and set off for Highgate and Ewart. He was actually at work—on a bust of Millie, and seemed very glad for any interruption. “Ewart, you old Fool,” I said, “knock off and come for a day’s gossip. I’m rotten. There’s a sympathetic sort of lunacy about you. Let’s go to Staines and paddle up to Windsor.” “Girl?” said Ewart, putting down a chisel. “Yes.” That was all I told him of my affair.