she
desired this one thing. She wept, she coaxed, she raved. Every woman,
she stormed, had a right to a proper wedding. She had always been
cheated, she had been a pawn shoved about at the bidding of others, her
own wishes never consulted. Was there any reason, any reason at all, why
she should not be properly married in the church?

He ventured quietly to remind her that there were peculiar circumstances
in the case. But she burst out at that. He was ashamed of her. Ashamed
of his own wife. If there were peculiar circumstances whose fault were
they? Not hers, surely? Would she be where she was now if he had not
neglected her all those years? Anyway, peculiar circumstances or not,
she would be married decently or she would not be married at all.

With set lips, the doctor gave in. Opposition maddened her, and, after
all, one farce more or less could not matter much.

"Very well," he said, "make your own arrangements."

Immediately, Mary became amiable. She was quite polite to Miss Philps,
almost pleasant to Esther. Into the preparations for the wedding she
entered with some of her old spasmodic energy. The occasion, she
determined, should be a talked of one in Coombe. She made plans, a fresh
one every day, and talked of them continually.

Only--there was one plan of which she did not speak. There was one
unsaid thing which matured quietly, covered by the noise of much
talking. Yet this plan more than any other would have to do with the
success of her last appearance in Coombe. It would be foolish indeed,
she decided, to let any promise, however well-meant, stand in the way of
this success. She could not, and would not, face a crowded church
feeling as she felt now. That was absurd! She would need some little
stimulant to help her carry it off. A very slightly increased dose would
do it. Only sufficient to banish that horrible craving, to give her a
long, satisfying sleep and then just a touch more, very little, to brace
her in the morning. Enough to send warm tingling thrills of well being
through her tired body, to brighten her eyes, to clear her brain and
steady her shaking nerves--to make her young again, young and a bride.

Only this once! Never again.

Of what use to continue the sophistries which justified her treachery to
herself! Perhaps of the three it was she who suffered most during that
last week. She lived in an agony of anticipation, a hell of desire for
which a sane pen has no description. Yet no