And now I have kept the biggest news to the last.  Mother has been to Madame, and she says that if she works all night, she will have everything ready for the 30th.  O Frank, does it not seem incredible!  Next Tuesday three weeks.  And the banns!  Oh my goodness, I am frightened when I think about it!  Dear old boy, you won’t tire of me, will you?  Whatever should I do if I thought you had tired of me!  And the worst of it is, that you don’t know me a bit.  I have a hundred thousand faults, and you arc blinded by your love and cannot see them.  But then some day the scales will fall from your eyes, and you will perceive the whole hundred thousand at once.  Oh, what a reaction there will be!  You will see me as I am, frivolous, wilful, idle, petulant, and altogether horrid.  But I do love you, Frank, with all my heart, and soul, and mind, and strength, and you’ll count that on the other side, won’t you?  Now I am so glad I have said all this, because it is best that you should know what you should expect.  It will be nice for you to look back and to say, ’She gave me fair warning, and she is no worse than she said.’  O Frank, think of the 30th.

P.S.—­I forgot to say that I had a grey silk cape, lined with cream, to go with the dress.  It is just sweet!

So that is how they arranged about the date.

CHAPTER II—­THE OVERTURE CONTINUED—­IN A MINOR KEY

Woking, June 7th.

My Own Dearest Maude,—­How I wish you were here, for I have been down, down, down, in the deepest state of despondency all day.  I have longed to hear the sound of your voice, or to feel the touch of your hand!  How can I be despondent, when in three weeks I shall be the husband of the dearest girl in England?  That is what I ask myself, and then the answer comes that it is just exactly on that account that my wretched conscience is gnawing at me.  I feel that I have not used you well; I owe you reparation, and I don’t know what to do.

In your last dear letter you talk about being frivolous.  You have never been frivolous.  But I have been frivolous—­for ever since I have learned to love you, I have been so wrapped up in my love, with my happiness gilding everything about me, that I have never really faced the prosaic facts of life or discussed with you what our marriage will really necessitate.  And now, at this eleventh hour, I realise that I have led you on in ignorance to an act which will perhaps take a great deal of the sunshine out of your life.  What have I to offer you in exchange for the sacrifice which you will make for me?  Myself, my love, and all that I have—­but how little it all amounts to!  You are a girl in a thousand, in ten thousand—­bright, beautiful, sweet, the dearest lady in all the land.  And I an average man—­or perhaps hardly that—­with little to boast of in the past, and vague ambitions for the future.  It is a