Really, the only fact I feel called
upon to add is the following announcement, culled
from a fashionable newspaper.
“On the 3rd June,” we
read, “at Onslow Square,
to Mr. and Mrs. James Adolphus Macartney, a daughter.”
That ought to do instead of the wedding
bells once demanded by the average reader. Let
it then stand for the point of my pair’s pilgrimage.
I promised a romantic James and have
given you a sentimental one. It is a most unfortunate
thing that it should be thought ridiculous for a man
to fall in love with his wife, for his wife to fall
in love with him; and we have to thank, I believe,
the high romanticks for it. They must have devilry,
it seems, or cayenne pepper. But I say, Scorn
not the sentimental, though it be barley-sugar to
ambrosia, a canary’s flight to a skylark’s.
Scorn it not; it’s the romantic of the unimaginative;
and if it won’t serve for a magic carpet, it
makes a useful anti-macassar.
The Macartneys saw no more of Urquhart,
who, however, recovered the use of his backbone, and
with it his zest for the upper air. He sent Lucy
some flowers after the event of June, and later on,
at the end of July, a letter, which I reproduce.
“Quid plura? I had
news of you and greeted it, and am gone. I
have hired myself to the Greeks for the air. I
take two machines of my own, and an m. b.
If you can forgive me when I have worked out my
right we shall meet again. If you, I shall
know, and keep off. Good-bye, Lucy.
“The one thing I can’t
forgive myself was the first, a wild
impulse, but a cad’s. All the rest
was inevitable. Good-bye.”
She asked Lancelot what Quid plura
meant. He snorted. “Hoo! Stale!
It means, what are you crying about? naturally.
Who said it? That letter? Who’s it
from? Mr. Urquhart, I suppose?”
“Yes, it’s from Mr. Urquhart,
to say Good-bye. He’s going to Greece,
to fly for the navy.”
“Oh. Rather sport. Has he gone?”
“Yes, dear, I think so.”
“You’ll write to him, I suppose?”
“I shall too, then. Rather. I should