Halcyone had passed a day of happy tranquillity.  She was of that godlike calm which frets not, believing always that only good could come to her, and that, as she heard nothing from her lover, it was because—­which was indeed the truth—­he was arranging for their future.  If it had been fine she had meant to go to the tree, but as it rained she went quietly to her room, and let her Priscilla brush her hair for an hour, while she stared in the old dark glass, seeing not her own pale and exquisite face, but all sorts of pictures of future happiness.  That she must not tell her old nurse, for the moment, of her good fortune was her one crumpled rose-leaf, but she had arranged that when she went she would post a letter at once to her, and Priscilla would, of course, join her in London, or wherever it was John Derringham would decide that she should live.  The thought of leaving her aunts did not so much trouble her.  The ancient ladies had never made her their companion or encouraged her to have a single interest in common with them.  She was even doubtful if they would really miss her, so little had they ever taken her into their lives.  For them she was still the child to be kept in her place, however much she had tried to grow a little nearer.  Then her thoughts turned back to ways and means.

She so often spent the whole day with Cheiron that her absence would not be remarked upon until bedtime.  But then she suddenly remembered, with a feeling of consternation, that the Professor intended to leave on the Tuesday in Whitsun week for his annual fortnight in London.  If the household knew of this, it might complicate matters, and was a pity.  However, there was no use speculating about any of these things, since she did not yet know on which day she was to start—­to start for Paradise—­as the wife of her Beloved!

Next morning it was fine again, and she decided she would go towards their tree, and if John were not there, she would even go on to the orchard house, because she realized fully the difficulty he would find in sending her a message.

But he was there waiting for her, in the bright sunlight, and she thought him the perfection of what a man should look in his well-cut gray flannels.

John Derringham knew how to dress himself, and had even in his oldest clothes that nameless, indescribable distinction which seems often to be the birthright of Englishmen of his class.

The daylight made her timid again; she was no more the imperious goddess of the night.  It was a shy and tender little maiden who nestled into the protecting strong arms of her lover.

He told her all his plans:  how he had given notice for the license, and that it would be forthcoming.  And he explained that he had chosen Bristol rather than Upminster because in this latter place everyone would know the name of La Sarthe—­even the registrar’s clerk and whoever else they would secure as a witness—­but in Bristol it might pass unnoticed.