Miss Dane was doing what she did not often do--thinking--and the thoughts chasing one another through her flighty brain were evidently the reverse of pleasant.
"So I'm really married," mused the young lady--"really and truly married!--and I've been thinking all along it was only a sham ceremony." She lifted up her left hand and looked at the shining wedding-ring.
"Ernest! Such a pretty name! And that's all I know about him.

Oh, who is he, among all the men I know--who?
It's not Doctor Oleander--I'm certain it's not, although the height and shape are the same; and I don't think it's Sardonyx, and I know it's not Hugh Ingelow--handsome Hugh!--because he hasn't the pluck, and he's a great deal too lazy.

If it's the lawyer or the doctor, I'll have a divorce, certain.

If it were the artist--more's the pity it's not--I--well, I shouldn't ask for a divorce.

I do like Hugh! I like him more and more every day, and I almost wish I hadn't played that shameful trick upon him.