Lucy had meant to do exactly as Wemyss said and keep her marriage
secret, creeping out of the house quietly, going off with him abroad
after the registrar had bound them together, and telegraphing or writing
to her aunt from some safe distant place _en route_ like Boulogne; but
on saying good-night the evening before the wedding day, to her very
great consternation her aunt, whom she was in the act of kissing,
suddenly pushed her gently a little away, looked at her a moment, and
then holding her by both arms said with conviction, 'It's to-morrow.'
Lucy could only stare. She stared idiotically, open-mouthed, her face
scarlet. She looked and felt both foolish and frightened. Aunt Dot was
uncanny. If she had discovered, how had she discovered? And what was she
going to do? But had she discovered, or was it just something she
chanced to remember, some engagement Lucy had naturally forgotten, or
perhaps only somebody coming to tea?
She clutched at this straw. 'What is to-morrow?' she stammered, scarlet
with fright and guilt.