she had seen his photograph.  Only it was too silly to consider this one in that light, since he wasn’t really going to be hers—­only a means to an end.  Oh! the pleasure to be free and rich and to do exactly what she pleased!  She had been planning all these days what she would do.  She would get back to the Inn not later than ten, and creep quietly up to her room through that side door which was always open into the yard.  The weather was so beautiful it would be nothing, even if the Inn people did see her entering—­she might have been out for a stroll in the twilight.  Then at six in the morning she would creep out again and go to the station; there was a train which left for Edinburgh at half-past—­and there she would get a fast express to London later on, after a good breakfast; and once in London a cab would take her to Mr. Parsons’, and after that!—­money and freedom!

She had planned it all.  She would leave a letter for her Uncle and Aunt, saying she was married and had gone and they need not trouble themselves any more about her.  Mr. Parsons would tell her where to stay and help her to get a good maid like Moravia had, and then she would go to Paris just as Moravia had done and buy all sorts of lovely clothes; it would take her perhaps a whole month, and then when she was a very grand, grown-up lady, she would write to her dear friend and say now she was ready to accept her invitation to go and stay with her!  And what absolute joy to give Moravia such a surprise! to say she was married and free! and had quite as nice things as even that Princess!  It was all a simply glorious picture—­and but for this kind young man it could never have been hers—­but her fate would have been—­Samuel Greenbank or Aunt Jemima for four years!  It was no wonder she felt grateful to him! and that her handshake was full of cordiality.

Michael pulled himself together rather sharply, the blood was now running very fast in his veins.

“Wait here,” he said to her, “while I go into the chapel to see if Mr. Fergusson and the two witnesses are ready.”

They were—­Johnson and Alexander Armstrong—­and the old chaplain who had been Michael’s father’s tutor and was now an almost doddering old nonentity also stood waiting in his white surplice at the altar rails.

The candles were all lit and great bunches of white lilies gave forth a heavy scent.  A strange sense of intoxication rose to Michael’s brain.  When he returned to his sitting-room he found his bride-to-be arranging her hat at the old mirror which had reflected her before.

“Won’t you take it off?” he suggested—­“and see, I have got you some flowers——­” and he brought her a great bunch of stephanotis which lay waiting upon a table near.

“There is no orange-blossom—­because that is for real weddings—­but won’t you just put this bit of stephanotis in your hair?” and he broke off a few blooms.

She was delighted, she loved dressing up, and she fixed it most becomingly with dexterous fingers above her left ear.