"All right," he said; "I will. I will tell him that I mean to marry you.
If he says yes--as he will, I'm sure--then I'll write you that. If he
says no, I'll write you that. But in either case, Mary Lathrop, I shall
marry you just the same. Your own no will be the only thing that can
prevent it. And now may I come and see you tomorrow evening?"

"Not tomorrow, Crawford. When will you start for home?"

"Saturday, I think. May I come the day after tomorrow? Just to say
good-by, you know."

Mary was troubled. She could not deny him and yet she was certain it
would be better for them both if he did not come.

"Perhaps," she said doubtfully. "But only to say good-by. You must
promise that."

There was a ring at the bell. Then Maggie, the maid, appeared to
announce that the Howe motor car was waiting at the curb. A few moments
later Mary was in her room adjusting her new hat before the mirror.
Ordinarily, adjusting that hat would have been an absorbing and
painstaking performance; just now it was done with scarcely a thought.
How devoutly she wished that the Howe car and the Howe dinner were
waiting for anyone in the wide world but her! She did not wish to meet
strangers; she did not wish to go anywhere, above all she did not wish
to eat. That evening, of all evenings in her life, she wished to be
alone. However, accepted invitations are implied obligations and Mary,
having adjusted the hat, gave her eyes a final dab with a handkerchief
and cold water and hastened down to answer the call to social martyrdom.