In the present case there was no such loophole. Marie had made a clear definite promise not to name the day for their marriage, should George return to the scepticism to which he had given way of late. It was true, if this were merely a legal question, there were two points which might make that promise inoperative. First, he had never abandoned his doubts, and therefore could not be said to go back to them. Second, the day had been fixed before he knew anything of Marie's promise. But of course, in conscience, neither of these points would hold for an instant. What should he do now? Could he do anything? Of course he could marry the girl, in spite of his mother. But could he marry her with ease to his own mind in spite of her promise? That was the question which perplexed him. Could he ask her to break her deliberate promise, in order that she might by his side run the risk of infidelity? He knew not one man in a thousand would hesitate a moment. He knew that in ordinary cases when a man wished to make a woman his wife he thought very little of anything else than attaining his object. But he, Osborne, was not a man of that kind. The mere dread that any shadow of doubt or difficulty lay between him and her would spoil all. His head was quite clear, but his heart was troubled sorely. What, he, for the sake of a few meaningless words, lose all the sunshine and the glory of his life! What, was his life to be marred for ever because Marie had uttered a few words to his mother? What right had words spoken by her to a third person to come between her and him? It was absurd to think of such a thing. No one out of Bedlam could dream of such a thing for a moment. Nothing of the kind should come between him and his love. Nothing. Mere words. What had mere words to do with him or her? What had mere words to do anywhere? Mere words, which once breathed disappeared for ever, to stand in the way of hearts drawn to one another as the moon draws the sea? What a humdrum thing breakfast had been without her! What a humdrum thing life had been until he met her! Now life would be simply intolerable without her. Without her? What nonsense! Promise or no promise, faith or no faith, he was not going to lose her; he was not going to lose the great melody of his life for ever. Come fair, come foul; come weal, come woe, he would make Marie Gordon his wife. It was a lucky thing he had business in the town. It would occupy him till luncheon, and then, as soon as he came back, he'd see his beautiful darling once more. What had she said last night in the conservatory after his cry? He had no more recollection than of what happened in the Great Desert at the time. Could he have muttered anything like a reproach, like words of farewell? 'Farewell! Ah, God, not that! No, no, no! Farewell, never! There shall be no farewell. I may be at liberty to break my own heart, but I am not at liberty to break hers.