“Oh, how I hate this petty talk of marriage, and duty, and all the rest of it!” he burst out bitterly.  “Tied to a little village, and its ideals—­you!  Oh, Martie, why aren’t you bigger than all this, why don’t you snap your fingers at them all?  Come away with me—­come away with me, Sweetheart, let’s get out of it—­and away from them!  You and I, Martie, what do we need of the world?  Oh, I want you so—­ I want you so!  We’ll go to Connecticut, and live on the bank of our river, and we’ll make boats for Teddy—­”

Teddy!  If she had been wavering, even here in the old garden, which was still haunted for her with memories of little girl days, of Saturday mornings with dolls, houses and sugar pies, the child’s name brought her suddenly to earth.  Teddy—!  That was her answer.

She got to her feet, and began to walk steadily toward the house.  He followed her.

“I ask you—­for my sake—­to give up the thought of it,” she said firmly.  “I beg you—!  I want you to go away—­to India, John, and forget me—­forget it all!”

He walked beside her for a moment in silence.  When he spoke his voice was dead and level.

“Of course if you ask me, the thing is done, my dear!”

“Thank you, John,” she said, with a sinking heart.

“Not at all.”

When they reached the side doorway, he went quickly and quietly in.  Dean Silver, sauntering around from the front garden, met her.  He had his watch in his hand.  The gray car was waiting in the drive.

“If we have to make Glen Mary to-night, Mrs. Bannister,” he began.  “And I want your answer to my wife’s invitation,” he added, with a concerned and curious look at her agitated face.

“Oh, Mr. Silver,” she said unhappily, “I can’t come and visit you—­ it’s all been a mistake—­I think I must have been crazy last night!  I’m so sorry—­but things can’t be changed now, I want you to take him away—­to sail up the Nile—­if you really are going—­”

“My dear girl,” the man said patiently, “he hasn’t the faintest idea of sailing with me—­I wish to the Lord he had!”

“He said he would,” she said lifelessly.

“Dryden did?” Silver turned upon her suddenly.

“Yes, he just said he would.”

“Dryden?”

“Yes.”  Martie picked a dead marguerite from a bush, and crumbled it in her fingers.

“When did he?”

“Just now.”

Dean Silver looked keenly at her face and shook his head bewilderedly.

“You are really going through with it, then?”

“Oh, yes, I must!” she answered feverishly.  And she added:  “I want to!”

“I see you want to!” the novelist said drily.  And his voice had lost its brotherly, affectionate tone when he added:  “Very well, then, if you two have settled it between you, I will not presume to interfere, I was going down to the city to-morrow to see about reservations; if Dryden means it—­of course it alters the entire aspect of affairs to me!”