She looked into his eyes with a sweet, sincere light in her own.
Hartley could scarcely believe that her surrender was true, it was
so swift and complete.

"Promise me," he said feelingly, "on your word and honour."

"On my word and honour," repeated Vivienne, softly.

At the door he turned and gazed at her happily, but yet as one who
scarcely trusts the foundations of his joy.

"To-morrow," he said, with a forefinger of reminder uplifted.

"To-morrow," she repeated with a smile of truth and candour.

In an hour and forty minutes Hartley stepped off the train at
Floralhurst. A brisk walk of ten minutes brought him to the gate of a
handsome two-story cottage set upon a wide and well-tended lawn.
Halfway to the house he was met by a woman with jet-black braided hair
and flowing white summer gown, who half strangled him without apparent
cause.

When they stepped into the hall she said:

"Mamma's here. The auto is coming for her in half an hour. She came
to dinner, but there's no dinner."

"I've something to tell you," said Hartley. "I thought to break it to
you gently, but since your mother is here we may as well out with it."