"Well, the sooner the better, as the man said when they put the noose around his neck. . . ."
"Sally! That sounds a bit tragical for a bride?"
"I'm not a bride. I am chief performer in a Spanish extravaganza. You should see my costume, Merry."
"Your wedding gown?"
"Call it that if you will.
"You ought to be married in sackcloth and ashes."
"Don't!" sharply. "I didn't call you up to be scolded."
"I'm sorry."
"I wonder if you are—really? Merry—try to come to my wedding . . . I want you."
"My dear, I will."
"Promise?"
"If it is humanly possible, Sally."
"Well, then 'good-by' and 'God bless you.'"
As she rang off, he wondered if it was a little sob that he caught across the miles. He went back to his uncle, his mind in a turmoil.
"Sally sent her love to you."
"She probably meant it for you."
Merry shook his head and sat down. "She's going to marry Winslow."
"She wouldn't look at Winslow if you cared. I read that between the lines of every letter she wrote from Paris. And somebody ought to save her from that marriage."
"You mean, of course, that I should."
"I want you to be happy."
"I think I have put happiness behind me, Uncle Buck."
