"
Howard did this. Mr. Redmayne wrote him a letter in which affection
and cynicism were curiously mingled.
"There will be two to please now instead of one," he wrote. "I do
not, of course, approve of Dons marrying. The tender passion is, I
believe, inimical to solid work; this I judge from observation
rather than from experience. But you will get over all that when
you are settled; and then if you decide to return--and we can ill
spare you--I hope you will return to work in a reasonable frame of
mind. Pray give my respects to the young lady, and say that if she
would like a testimonial to your honesty and sobriety, I shall be
happy to send her one."
All these experiences, shared by Maud, were absurdly delightful to
Howard. She was rather alarmed by Redmayne's letter.
"I feel as if I were doing rather an awful thing," she said, "in
taking you away like this. I feel like Hotspur's wife and Enid
rolled into one. I shouldn't DARE to go with you at once to
Cambridge--I should feel like a Pomeranian dog on a lead."
And so it came to pass that on a certain Monday in the month of
September a very quiet little wedding took place at Windlow. The
bells were rung, and a hideous object of brushwood and bunting,
that looked like the work of a bower-bird, was erected in the road,
and called a triumphal arch. Mr. Redmayne insisted on coming, and
escorted Monica from Cambridge, "without in any way compromising my
honour and virtue," he said: "it must be plainly understood that I
have no INTENTIONS.
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