No doubt it looked romantic that she should think she was in love with a man whom she had not seen a fortnight ago. But why need it look romantic? Suppose it did look romantic, what then? Was romance a sin? Who ever laid down a rule that romance was wrong, except sharp-nosed old maids and prosy fathers? What was the difference between falling in love in a week and taking a whole year about it? Romance was delightful. Love was beautiful. What could be better than to combine romance and love? Wasn't it out of a combination of romance and love that most of the noblest actions of men and women had sprung? Besides, after all, the thing was not romantic. There was nothing at all romantic about the circumstances under which they had met. There was nothing very extraordinary in a young man and young woman exchanging looks across the early dinner-table of a London hotel. There was nothing very unusual in a young man fresh from home getting red in the face when he wanted to say something civil to a pretty girl. A visit to St Paul's Cathedral, Westminster Abbey, the Criterion, the Albert Hall, and a few other things, were not astonishing adventures for even our very matter-of-fact days. No doubt very few men proposed in hansom cabs. But that was because a hansom cab was essentially a nonromantic place for proposing. Call it romance if you like. What difference did it make whether you called it romance and it was romance, or you called it romance and it wasn't romance, or you didn't call it romance? It was just as desirable whether you called it one thing or another or nothing, so long as it was delightful. She had told him he must wait a month for an answer. Now she was sorry she had not said a fortnight. What was the good of keeping him in suspense a month? It was cruel, barbarous. She should not do anything of the kind. She'd just put him at rest at once. That wasn't the correct thing to do, she knew. But she didn't care a bit about being correct. What was the good of being correct at his expense? She had by this time made up her mind she loved him, and would marry him. She might as well tell him so at once. She wasn't likely to change her mind or heart in another fortnight. Why should she not put things right at once? He would not mistake her, or take her up wrongly. He had a high chivalric nature, and would understand her motive. When she told him, what would he do? Kiss her. Kiss her! He, the man who a fortnight ago she had never seen, kiss her who had never been kissed by a man since she was a child! Kiss her! It wasn't, of course, necessary he should kiss her, but she supposed he would. She shouldn't like it a bit. It would be so strange to allow him to kiss her without shrieking or trying to run away. She supposed there was nothing for it but to submit. But it would seem so strange.