"An inn!"

"Why not?"

"An inn is a public place."

A movement of natural impatience escaped her--but she controlled
herself, and went on as quietly as before:

"The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood. You have
no prying eyes to dread there. I have picked it out expressly for that
reason. It's away from the railway; it's away from the high-road: it's
kept by a decent, respectable Scotchwoman--"

"Decent, respectable Scotchwomen who keep inns," interposed Geoffrey,
"don't cotton to young ladies who are traveling alone. The landlady
won't receive you."

It was a well-aimed objection--but it missed the mark. A woman bent on
her marriage is a woman who can meet the objections of the whole world,
single-handed, and refute them all.

"I have provided for every thing," she said, "and I have provided for
that. I shall tell the landlady I am on my wedding-trip. I shall say
my husband is sight-seeing, on foot, among the mountains in the
neighborhood--"

"She is sure to believe that!" said Geoffrey.

"She is sure to _dis_believe it, if you like. Let her! You have only