'I remember,' said Hilary, nodding gently.
'And then, Hilary, father sent for me and told me it was no use; and I said I'd never marry any one else. And father said, "There, there, don't cry. We'll see what mother says."'
'Your mother was a brick,' said Hilary, poking the fire.
'And that night—they never told me anything about it, and I didn't even change my frock, but came down, looking horrible, just as I was, in an old black rag—Now, Hilary, don't say it was pretty!'
Hilary, unconvinced, shook his head.
'And when I walked into the drawing-room there was nobody there but just you; and we neither of us said anything for ever so long. And then father and mother came in and—do you remember after dinner, Hilary?'
'I remember,' said Hilary.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Hilary was looking into the fire; little Miss Phyllis's eyes were fixed, in rapt gaze, on the ceiling; Hilary was looking at his wife—I, thinking it safest, was regarding my own boots.
At last Miss Phyllis broke the silence.
'How perfectly lovely!' she said.
'Yes,' said Mrs. Hilary. 'And we were married three months afterwards.'
'Tenth of June,' said Hilary reflectively.
'And we had the most charming little rooms in the world! Do you remember those first rooms, dear? So tiny!'
'Not bad little rooms,' said Hilary.
