Hugh hesitated a little. "Well, it won't take place. They're not engaged, not really. This is a secret, a preposterous secret. I wouldn't tell any one else, but I'm willing to tell you. It may make a difference to you."
Bolton-Brown turned his head; he looked at Hugh a minute through the fresh darkness. "It does make a difference to me. But I don't understand," he added.
"Neither do I. I don't like it. It's a pretence, a temporary make-believe, to help Beaupré through."
"Through what?"
"He's so run after."
The young American stared, ejaculated, mused. "Oh, yes—your mother told me."
"It's a sort of invention of my mother's and a notion of his own (very absurd, I think), till he can see his way. Mary serves as a kind of escort for these first exposed months. It's ridiculous, but I don't know that it hurts her."
"Oh!" said Bolton-Brown.
"I don't know either that it does her any good."
