Now? She appeared to ponder. Today? I could telephone, she mused, but, on the whole, I think it's better to write. You must give me three days. In three days I'll bring you and Alice together in this garden.
Three days! He was crestfallen again.
After all, dear boy, you've already waited weeks. What are three days more?
You know best, my dear, dear friend.
She regarded him curiously, weighing him.
Are you . . . She began, and then shifting her phrase, went on, Do you want to marry her?
If she will . . . at once!
Oh! she will.
You think . . .
I am certain of it.
How can I thank you?
Don't thank me, Harold.
Another problem had arisen in his mind.
Where shall I wait the three days?
Go home, of course. It's absurd for you to wander about in those clothes. Now that you know what you are going to do you can handle Drains. Besides, after last night, I have an idea Drains won't bother you any more.
Campaspe had awakened to some show of enthusiasm again. She was making plans. Get some money together, she went on. You will need it. Alice is accustomed to spending all she wants to spend. You must go somewhere and we—you and
