At the very last, and as if inspired by some special imp of the perverse, Mary declared that she must have a church wedding.  Opposition was useless.  With all the distorted force of her drug-ridden brain, she desired this one thing.  She wept, she coaxed, she raved.  Every woman, she stormed, had a right to a proper wedding.  She had always been cheated, she had been a pawn shoved about at the bidding of others, her own wishes never consulted.  Was there any reason, any reason at all, why she should not be properly married in the church?

He ventured quietly to remind her that there were peculiar circumstances in the case.  But she burst out at that.  He was ashamed of her.  Ashamed of his own wife.  If there were peculiar circumstances whose fault were they?  Not hers, surely?  Would she be where she was now if he had not neglected her all those years?  Anyway, peculiar circumstances or not, she would be married decently or she would not be married at all.

With set lips, the doctor gave in.  Opposition maddened her, and, after all, one farce more or less could not matter much.

“Very well,” he said, “make your own arrangements.”

Immediately, Mary became amiable.  She was quite polite to Miss Philps, almost pleasant to Esther.  Into the preparations for the wedding she entered with some of her old spasmodic energy.  The occasion, she determined, should be a talked of one in Coombe.  She made plans, a fresh one every day, and talked of them continually.

Only—­there was one plan of which she did not speak.  There was one unsaid thing which matured quietly, covered by the noise of much talking.  Yet this plan more than any other would have to do with the success of her last appearance in Coombe.  It would be foolish indeed, she decided, to let any promise, however well-meant, stand in the way of this success.  She could not, and would not, face a crowded church feeling as she felt now.  That was absurd!  She would need some little stimulant to help her carry it off.  A very slightly increased dose would do it.  Only sufficient to banish that horrible craving, to give her a long, satisfying sleep and then just a touch more, very little, to brace her in the morning.  Enough to send warm tingling thrills of well being through her tired body, to brighten her eyes, to clear her brain and steady her shaking nerves—­to make her young again, young and a bride.

Only this once!  Never again.

Of what use to continue the sophistries which justified her treachery to herself!  Perhaps of the three it was she who suffered most during that last week.  She lived in an agony of anticipation, a hell of desire for which a sane pen has no description.  Yet no one must suspect that she anticipated or desired anything—­not the cool-eyed Miss Philps, not Esther, not the doctor, not even Jane.  The mask must not slip for one single moment.  So far, they suspected nothing; but they were always on their guard, always.  A careless look, an unconsidered movement might betray her, and then—!  She raved in her room sometimes when she thought of a possible balking of her purpose.