ll marry Mary to--day fortnight," said he. "When we are man and wife
I shall forget this madness and love her as I used to."

He went down to breakfast, ate a bit of toast and drank a cup of very
strong tea. Presently Mary appeared and greeted him with remarkable
tenderness. His heart smote him, and his remorse strengthened his
determination.

"I want to speak to you after breakfast," he told her.

His manner was so significant that a sudden gleam of hope flashed into
her mind. Could it be that he had seen, that he would be generous? She
banished the shameful hope. She would not accept generosity at the
expense of pain to him.

Miss Bussey, professing to find bed the best place in the world, was in
the habit of taking her breakfast there. The lovers were alone, and,
the meal ended, they passed together into the conservatory. Mary sat
down and John leant against the glass door opposite her.

"Well?" said she, smiling at him.

It suddenly struck John that, in a scene of this nature, it
ill-befitted him to stand three yards from the lady. He took a chair
and drew it close beside her. The thing had to be done and it should be
done properly.

"We've made a mistake, Mary," he announced, taking her hand and
speaking in a rallying tone.

"A mistake!" she cried; "oh, how?"

"In fixing our marriage----."

"So soon?"

"My darling!" said John (and it was impossible to deny admiration to
the tone he said it in), "no. So late! What are we waiting for? Why are
we wasting all this precious time?"

Mary could not speak, but consternation passed for an appropriate
confusion, and John pursued his passionate pleadings. As Mary felt his
grasp and looked into his honest eyes, her duty lay plain before her.
She would not stoop to paltry excuses on the score of clothes,
invitations, or such trifles. She had made up her mind to the thing;
surely she ought to do it in the way most gracious and most pleasing to
her lover.

"If Aunt consents," she murmured at last, "do as you like, John dear,"
and the embrace which each felt to be inevitable at such a crisis
passed between them.

A discreet cough separated them. The butler stood in the doorway, with
two letters on a salver. One he handed to Mary, the other to John, and
walked away with a twinkle in his eye. However even our butlers do not
know everything that happens in our houses (to say nothing of our
hearts), although much they may think they do.

John looked at his letter,