The letter began: “MY DEAREST GIRL,—I cannot let you do this foolish thing—” She crumpled notes and letter together in her hand, and then with a passionate gesture flung them into the fire. Cursing himself for his inertness, Jack soon shook off this drowsiness, and set to work in earnest. He thought of her and himself, and no longer in that vein of incidental adventure in which he had begun. I want you to be my wife. Is there?” “Nothing,” said Ann Veronica, with a radiant face. I should have thought my note cleared up everything. She could not look at him through an interval that seemed to her a vast gulf of time.
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