Dory—­his love misleading his passion, as it usually does when it has much influence before marriage—­reasoned that, in the interest of the Adelaide that was to be, after they were married, and in his own interest with her as well, the wise course for him to pursue was to wait until time and the compulsion of new circumstances should drive away her mood, should give her mind and her real character a chance to assert themselves.  In the commission to go abroad, he saw the external force for which he had been waiting and hoping.  And it seemed to him most timely—­for Ross’s wedding invitations were out.

“Two weeks,” said Adelaide absently.  “You will sail in two weeks.”  Then in two weeks she could be out of it all, could be far away in new surroundings, among new ideas, among strangers.  She could make the new start; she could submerge, drown her old self in the new interests.

“Will you come?” he said, when he could endure the suspense no longer.  “Won’t you come?”

She temporized.  “I’m afraid I couldn’t—­oughtn’t to leave—­mother and Arthur just now.”

He smiled sadly.  She might need her mother and her brother; but in the mood in which she had been for the last few months, they certainly did not need her.  “Adelaide,” said he, with that firmness which he knew so well how to combine with gentleness, without weakening it, “our whole future depends on this.  If our lives are to grow together, we must begin.  This is our opportunity.”

She knew that Dory was not a man she could play fast and loose with, even had she been so disposed.  Clearly, she must decide whether she intended to marry him, to make his life hers and her life his.  She looked helplessly round.  What but him was there to build on?  Without him—­She broke the long silence with, “That is true.  We must begin.”  Then, after a pause during which she tried to think and found she couldn’t, “Make up my mind for me.”

“Let us be married day after to-morrow,” said he.  “We can leave for New York on the one o’clock train and sail on Thursday.”

“You had it planned!”

“I had several plans,” he answered.  “That’s the best one.”

What should she do?  Impulsively—­why, she did not know—­she gave Dory her answer:  “Yes, that is the best plan.  I must begin—­at once.”  And she started up, in a fever to be doing.

Dory, dazed by his unexpected, complete victory, went immediately, lest he should say or do something that would break or weaken the current of her aroused energy.  He went without as much as touching her hand.  Certainly, if ever man tempted fate to snatch from him the woman he loved, Dory did then; and at that time Del must, indeed, have been strongly drawn to him, or she would have been unable to persist.