“I think we have done enough for one day,” she said at last. “The watercolors and the sculpture must wait until next time.”
“We had better watch for a vacant seat. You must be tired.”
“I am, a little. I think I should like to sit in some other room. Mrs. Leith Fairfax is over there with Mr. Douglas — a gentleman whom I know and would rather not meet just now. You saw him at Wandsworth.”
“Yes. That tall man? He has let his beard grow since.”
“That is he. Let us go to the room where the drawings are: we shall have a better chance of a seat there. I have not seen Sholto for two years; and our last meeting was rather a stormy one.”
“What happened?”
Marian was a little hurt by being questioned. She missed the reticence of a gentleman. Then she reproached herself for not understanding that his frank curiosity was a delicate appeal to her confidence in him, and answered: “He proposed to me.”
Conolly immediately dropped the subject, and went in search of a vacant seat. They found one in the little room where the architects’ drawings languish. They were silent for some time.
Then he began, seriously: “Is it too soon to call you by your own name? ‘Miss Lind’ is distant; but ‘Marian’ might shock you if it came too confidently without preparation.”
“Whichever you please.”
“Whichever I please!”
“That is the worst of being a woman. Little speeches that are sheer coquetry when you analyze them, come to our lips and escape even when we are most anxious to be straightforward.”
“In the same way,” said Conolly, “the most enlightened men often express themselves in a purely conventional manner on subjects on which they have the deepest convictions.” This sententious utterance had the effect of extinguishing the conversation for some moments, Marian being unable to think of a worthy rejoinder. At last she said:
“What is your name?”
“Edward, or, familiarly, Ned. Commonly Ted. In America, Ed. With, of course, the diminutives Neddy, Teddy, and Eddy.”
“I think I should prefer Ned.”
“I prefer Ned myself.”
“Have you any other name?”
“Yes; but it is a secret. Why people should be plagued with two Christian names, I do not know. No one would have believed in the motor if they had known that my name was Sebastian.”
“Sebastian!”
“Hush. I was actually christened Edoardo Sebastiano Conolly. My father used to spell his name Conollj whilst he was out of Italy. I have frustrated the bounty of my godfathers by suppressing all but the sensible Edward Conolly.”
There was a pause. Then Marian spoke.
“Do you intend to make our — our engagement known at once?”
“I have considered the point; and as you are the person likely to be inconvenienced by its publication, I am bound to let you conceal it for the present, if you wish to. It must transpire sometime: the sooner the better. You will feel uncomfortably deceitful with such a secret; and as for me, every time your father greets me cordially in the City I shall feel mean. However, you can watch for your opportunity. Let me know at once when the cat comes out of the bag.”
“I will. I think, as you say, the right course is to tell at once.”
“Undoubtedly. But from the moment you do so until we are married you will be worried by remonstrances, entreaties, threats, and what not; so that we cannot possibly make that interval too short.”
“We must take Nelly into our confidence. You will not object to that?”
“Certainly not. I like Miss McQuinch.”
“You really do! Oh, I am so glad. Well, we are accustomed to go about together, especially to picture galleries. We can come to the Academy as often as we like; and you can come as often as you like, can you not?”
“Opening day, for instance.”
“Yes, if you wish.”
“Let us say between half-past four and five, then. I would willingly be here when the doors open in the morning; but my business will not do itself while I am philandering and making you tired of me before your time. The consciousness of having done a day’s work is necessary to my complete happiness.”
“I, too, have my day’s work to do, silly as it is. I have to housekeep, to receive visitors, to write notes about nothing, and to think of the future. We can say half-past four or any later hour that may suit you.”
“Agreed. And now, Marian — —”
“Dont let me disturb you,” said Miss McQuinch, at his elbow, to Marian; “but Mrs. Leith Fairfax will be here with Sholto Douglas presently; and I thought you might like to have an opportunity of avoiding him. How do you do, Mr. Conolly?”
“I must see him sooner or later,” said Marian, rising. “Better face him at once and get it over. I will go back by myself and meet them.” Then, with a smile at Conolly, she went out through the door leading to the watercolor gallery.
“Marian does not stand on much ceremony with you, Mr. Conolly,” said
Miss McQuinch, glancing at him.
“No,” said Conolly. “Do you think you could face the Academy again on
Monday at half-past four?”
“Why?”
“Miss Lind is coming to meet me here at that hour.”
“Marian!”
“Precisely. Marian. She has promised to marry me. At present it is a secret. But it was to be mentioned to you.”
“It will not be a secret very long if you allow people to overhear you calling her by her Christian name in the middle of the Academy, as you did me just now,” said Elinor, privately much taken aback, but resolute not to appear so.
“Did you overhear us? I should have been more careful. You do not seem surprised.”
“Just a little, at your audacity. Not in the least at Marian’s consenting.”
“Thank you.”
“I did not mean it in that way at all,” said Elinor resentfully. “I think you have been very fortunate, as I suppose you would have married somebody in any case. I believe you are able to appreciate her. That’s a compliment.”
“Yes. I hope I deserve it. Do you think you will ever forgive me for supplanting the hero Marian deserves?”
“If you had let your chance of her slip, I should have despised you, I think: at least, I should if you had missed it with your eyes open. I am so far prejudiced in your favor that I think Marian would not like you unless you were good. I have known her to pity people who deserved to be strangled; but I never knew her to be attracted by any unworthy person except myself; and even I have my good points. You need not trouble yourself to agree with me: you could not do less, in common politeness. As I am rather tired, I shall go and sit in the vestibule until the others are ready to go home. In the meantime you can tell me all the particulars you care to trust me with. Marian will tell me the rest when we go home.”
“That