Already, you see, I was calling her by her Christian name! And the more I thought of her, the stronger grew the conviction--which has no doubt already forced itself upon the romantic reader--that we were born for each other.
But who is Sylvia, who is she?
and likewise where is Sylvia, where is she?
Obviously they were questions not to be answered off-hand.

Was not my future--at all events my immediate future--to be spent in answering them?
Indeed, curiously enough, my recent haste to have them answered had suddenly died down.

A sort of matrimonial security possessed me.

I felt as I imagine a husband may feel on a solitary holiday--if there are husbands unnatural enough to go holidaying without their wives--pleasantly conscious of a home tucked somewhere beneath the distant sunset, yet in no precipitate hurry to return there before the appointed day.
In fact, a chill tremor went through me as I realised that, to all intent, I was at length respectably settled down, with quite a considerable retrospect of happy married life.

To come to a decision is always to bring something to an end.