As we began to prepare to go in, the Doctor looked down the path to where the Divorcee was still standing.  After a moment’s hesitation he took her lace scarf from the back of her chair, and strolled after her.  The Sculptor shrugged his shoulders with such a droll expression that we all had to smile.  Then we went indoors.

“Well,” said the Doctor, as he joined her—­she told me about it afterwards—­“was that the way it happened?”

“No, no,” replied the Divorcee, petulantly.  “That is not a bit the way it happened.  That is the way I wish it had happened.  Oh, no.  I was brought up to believe in the proprietary rights in marriage, and I did what I thought became a womanly woman.  I asserted my rights, and made a common or garden row.”

The Doctor laughed, as she stamped her foot at him.

“Pardon—­pardon,” said he.  “I was only going to say ‘Thank God.’  You know I like it best that way.”

“I wish I had not told the old story,” she said pettishly.  “It serves me quite right.  Now I suppose they’ve got all sorts of queer notions in their heads.”

“Nonsense,” said the Doctor.  “All authors, you know, run the risk of getting mixed up in their romances—­think of Charlotte Bronte.”

“I’m not an author, and I am going to bed,—­to repent of my folly,” and she sailed into the house, leaving the Doctor gazing quizzically after her.  Before she was out of hearing, he called to her:  “I say, you haven’t changed a bit since ’92.”

She heard but she did not answer.

VII

THE LAWYER’S STORY

THE NIGHT BEFORE THE WEDDING

THE TALE OF A BRIDE-ELECT

The next day we all hung about the garden, except the Youngster, who disappeared on his wheel early in the day, and only came back, hot and dusty, at tea-time.  He waved a hand at us as he ran through the garden crying:  “I’ll change, and be with you in a moment,” and leapt up the outside staircase that led to the gallery on which his room opened, and disappeared.

I found an opportunity to go up the other staircase a little later—­the Youngster was an old pet of mine, and off and on, I had mothered him.  I tapped at the door.

“Can’t come in!” he cried.

“Where’ve you been?”

“Wait there a minute—­and mum—.  I’ll tell you.”

So I went and sat in the window looking down the road, until he came, spick and span in white flannels, with his head not yet dried from the douching he had taken.

“See here,” he whispered, “I know you can keep a secret.  Well, I’ve been out toward Cambrai—­only sixty miles—­and I am tuckered.  There was a battle there last night—­English driven back.  They are only two days’ march away, and oh! the sight on the roads.  Don’t let’s talk of it.”

In spite of myself, I expect I went white, for he exclaimed:  “Darn it, I suppose I ought not to have told you.  But I had to let off to some one.  I don’t want to tell the Doctor.  In fact, he forbade my going again.”