"Now I'll call Mums," cried Marise, fearing to risk such a moment alone with this unclassified wild animal, soon to become her dummy husband. "Mums is not pleased, because I said I wanted a few words with you before she came in--though she'd be _much_ crosser if she knew I'd let Miss Marks stay. You'll back me up with her, won't you, that my plan--_ours_, I mean--is the best?" "I think," said Garth, "you don't need much backing from me with your mother, though if you do, I'll give it as well as I know how. But wait a second before she comes. I have a superstition. I ask that you won't be married in black." "Oh! But I chose this dress on purpose!" The words escaped before she'd stopped to think. Garth didn't flush. He was past that. He needed all his blood at his heart. "I supposed you did," he said. "All the same, don't wear it." "But it's such a pretty dress--and hat. They're new. I like them--better than anything I've got." "_For this occasion!_ I understand." "Are you--being sarcastic?" Marise hesitated. "No-o. Only sincere. Why did you want to wear black to be married--to me?" "I--don't know." She stammered a little. "Well then, if you don't know, change to another colour." "Oh, I'm quite willing to do that if you make a point of it!" The man's manner was so different from the other day, that Marise was less sure of his motives in taking her at the price. He spoke shortly and sharply now, like a military martinet, she decided. But he _wasn't_ exactly "common." He wasn't even ordinary. Her last words were at the door of her own room, and she whisked through, to find her mother. She thought how she should break the news. And she thought, also, what she should wear in place of the black dress. Should she put on grey--or heliotrope--"second mourning"? She would have liked to try this trick upon Garth. But the man was capable of making her take off one thing after the other, on pain of not being married to-day--which meant, not spiting Severance. * * * * * Mrs. Sorel was flabbergasted. She would not have used such a vulgar expression herself; but that is what she was. She argued, she warned, she scolded, she besought. Severance would be furious. It would be a blow which his love might not survive. Tony had not dreamed of this marriage taking place with such--indecent haste! "If you say much more it won't take place at all!" shrilled Marise, on the verge of hysterics, which (Mums knew from bitter experience) her twentieth-century child was not at all above having when thwarted, just like an early Edwardian. While Marise was away, Garth opened the folded scrap of paper that Zélie Marks had slipped into his hand, and read the line she had pencilled. "For _goodness'_ sake don't be married in those awful best clothes of yours that you wore Sunday. Put on the uniform of the _Guards_, and look a regular man."