usted his faculties to the situation, there crept upon him a chill
apprehension.

For Fillmore had not been blind to the significance of that invitation
to Monk's Crofton. Nowadays your wooer does not formally approach a
girl's nearest relative and ask permission to pay his addresses; but,
when he invites her and that nearest relative to his country home and
collects all the rest of the family to meet her, the thing may be
said to have advanced beyond the realms of mere speculation. Shrewdly
Fillmore had deduced that Bruce Carmyle was in love with Sally, and
mentally he had joined their hands and given them a brother's blessing.
And now it was only too plain that disaster must have occurred. If the
invitation could mean only one thing, so also could Sally's presence at
White Plains mean only one thing.

"Sally!" A croaking whisper was the best he could achieve. "What...
what...?"

"Did I startle you? I'm sorry."

"What are you doing here? Why aren't you at Monk's Crofton?"

Sally glanced past him at the ring and the crowd around it.

"I decided I wanted to get back to America. Circumstances arose which
made it pleasanter to leave Monk's Crofton."

"Do you mean to say...?"

"Yes. Don't let's talk about it."

"Do you mean to say," persisted Fillmore, "that Carmyle proposed to you
and you turned him down?"

Sally flushed.

"I don't think it's particularly nice to talk about that sort of thing,
but--yes."

A feeling of desolation overcame Fillmore. That conviction, which
saddens us at all times, of the wilful bone-headedness of our fellows
swept coldly upon him. Everything had been so perfect, the whole
arrangement so ideal, that it had never occurred to him as a possibility
that Sally might take it into her head to spoil it by declining to play
the part allotted to her. The match was so obviously the best thing that
could happen. It was not merely the suitor's impressive wealth that made
him hold this opinion, though it would be idle to deny that the prospect
of having a brother-in-lawful claim on the Carmyle bank-balance had cast
a rosy glamour over the future as he had envisaged it. He honestly
liked and respected the man. He appreciated his quiet and aristocratic
reserve. A well-bred fellow, sensible withal, just the sort of husband
a girl like Sally needed. And now she had ruined everything. With the
capricious perversity which so characterizes her otherwise delightful
sex, she had spilled the beans.