“What about June?” he demanded. “She’ll—she’ll never forgive me.”
“Oh, blow June,” said Sarah. “Besides, it’s not settled yet, and I’m not
at all sure I’m going to do it. Money isn’t everything.”
“That,” said Virgil, “depends upon the amount. Besides, I daresay after
a bit we shall—we shall be—er—quite happy.”
“Ugh,” shuddered Sarah. “We shan’t. We shall be miserable. No,” she
added suddenly. “It’s a great temptation, but we’d better not.”
She handed the paper back.
“‘Better not’?” cried Pardoner. “What d’you mean—‘better not’?”
“Better not marry,” said Sarah. “It’ld be selling ourselves.”
Virgil took a deep breath.
“My dear child, you don’t know what you’re saying. You can’t go and
throw away three hundred thousand pounds. Besides, what about my share?
If you chuck up yours, you chuck up mine too.”
“That,” said Sarah deliberately, “does not weigh with me. I came to
dinner to-night to decide whether I could possibly do it. And now I know
I can’t.”
“My dear Sarah,” said Pardoner, “be reasonable. By the mercy of heaven,
neither of us is already married. To complete our good fortune, neither
of us is even pledged to marry anybody else.”
“What about June?” said Sarah.
“She’s got nothing in writing,” said Virgil shortly. “Listen. If either
of us had been engaged, it would have complicated everything, especially
for me. The damages, for instance, would have been painfully easy to
assess. So we’ve much to be thankful for. Of course, it would have been
nicer if we’d been left the money unconditionally, but there you are. We
might be worse off. Supposing I had false teeth or a long matted beard
or something. . . . And I’ve always thought, Sarah, that you were very
charming, and I shouldn’t be surprised if, after a year or two, you got
quite crazy about me.”
Miss Vulliamy sighed.
“I feel very uneasy about June,” she declared. “George’ll find somebody
else, I expect. Men are like that. But poor June Townshend . . . I
should hate her to think that my . . . my husband——”
“June’s very intelligent,” said Virgil. “I’ll write and explain the
position. Don’t worry about that. She’s most sympathetic. I’m sure
she’ld be the first to——”
“Congratulate you?”
“Well, almost,” said Pardoner. “She’s an awful good sort, June.”
“What brutes men are,” said Sarah. “However, if you must have your
wretched money, I suppose I shall have to give way. Incidentally, you
might begin by choosing me a peach, will you?”
Virgil selected one carefully. Then he looked at Sarah.
“Tell me the worst,” he said. “Shall it be rough or smooth?”
“Smooth, of course. And don’t rush it. Peel it properly.
Remember—you’re my slave now. Oh, and I’ld like some grenadine. I’m
thirsty.”
Pardoner set down his knife.
“I beg,” he implored, “I beg that you will not disgrace me by
supplanting this nectar by a tumbler of—of Schoolgirl’s Joy. I mean,
I’ld rather order you a pint of draught stout. Stout may be coarse, but,
at least, it’s got some body.”
“Grenadine,” said Sarah relentlessly. “All nice and red and sweet. I
love it.”
Physically and mentally, the epicure writhed. . . . Then he gave the
order.
Sarah smiled maddeningly.
“That was very sweet of you, Virgil—darling.”
“Not at all, my love”—shakily. “When we’re—er married—blast this
peach!” he added savagely, plunging his hands in water. “I suppose you
couldn’t do with a walnut?”
“Get down to it,” said Sarah shortly. “‘When we’re married,’ you were
saying.”
“Was I? Oh, yes. Well, when——By the way, I’d better announce it,
hadn’t I?”
“I suppose so,” said Sarah.
“Right,” said Virgil. “The usual thing, I take it. ‘A marriage has been
arranged, and——’”
He stopped short and looked at her.
Sarah smiled back.
“It has, with a vengeance,” she flashed. “Hasn’t it?”
Virgil wiped his hands and lifted his glass.
“Your very good health, Sarah. I’m sorry you can’t marry George. But
I’ll do my best.”
He drank luxuriously.
Sarah lifted her grenadine.
“And yours, Virgil. I know your feelings exactly. As for poor June,
words fail me. But, since it can’t be helped, I’ll do what I can.”
“We shall get through—dear,” said Pardoner stoutly. “And—and you’ve
got a very sweet way.”
“That,” said Sarah, “is thanks to the grenadine. And now get on with
that peach. Where shall we live?” she added artlessly. “Lincolnshire?”