“We know you’ll be awfully surprised,” Julia cried, treating her to squeezes of nervous rapture, “but—­”

“Now, darling,” said Rokeby, “let me.  You see, Marie, we’ve gone and done for ourselves.  May we sit down with you just a moment while I tell you?  I knew that Julia—­”

“He was so stupid about it,” said Julia, glowing.

“Don’t cut in and spoil the story, dearest,” he urged.  “I knew she’d never make up her mind really to get married, you know, Marie, so this afternoon I met her coming out of the office, drove her to a church where all arrangements had been made, took one of those handy permits out of my pocket—­a special licence, you know—­and—­”

“You’re married,” said Marie Kerr in rather a dull way which disappointed them both.

“We are.”

“After all, Marie,” said Julia breathlessly, “don’t you think it’s the nicest way; without any fuss and premeditation, and bridesmaids, and cake and things?  Just our two selves.”

“It was splendid,” said Rokeby.  “I’m the first man I know who ever really enjoyed his wedding.”

Marie sat between them and held a hand of each; after a while she answered: 

“I do congratulate you both; it’s all so exciting and romantic.  Oh!  I do hope you’ll always be very happy.”

“Thank you, dear,” Julia beamed.

“We know we shall always be very happy,” said Rokeby.

“And now?” Marie asked with an effort.

“We’re going honeymooning,” said the bridegroom.

Again she sat silent, keeping the smile upon her lips.

“Where are you going?” she asked by and by.  “We went to Bournemouth.  We had such a delightful time...”

“Our plans are uncertain,” said Rokeby.

“That means you are going to hide.”

“For a while we are; no letters; no telegrams; no intrusions of any kind.  Just us.  See how marriage takes a hardened bachelor!”

“And a hardened spinster!” Julia chimed.

“I do hope,” Marie repeated, “that you’ll be very happy.  When will you come back?”

“Early next month,” said Julia.

“Perhaps,” Rokeby qualified.

“And the first thing we do,” said Julia affectionately, “will be to come and see how our Marie is, left all alone without us.”

“Don’t!” Marie begged.  “You’re making me gulpy.  For two pins I’d cry.  You two—­you’ve just been everything to me this year, after the children.  You don’t know how lonely you’re making me feel.”

“But soon Osborn—­”

“Osborn’s coming home next week.”

“Oh, great!” Rokeby cried; and Mrs. Rokeby added:  “I am glad.  Now you won’t be lonely any more.”

“I don’t know,” Marie said quietly.

She took Julia’s bare left hand from her muff and looked at the rings and stroked it.

“I love a new wedding ring,” she said.

“Our train, darling,” Rokeby reminded his wife.