"Marcella, for
God's sake say you'll let me--"
She felt she could not, to-day of all days, preach to him, but she could
not trust herself to speak. She merely nodded her head, and without
waiting another instant he darted into the nearest hotel, leaving her
standing on the pavement. Her heart was aching, but every moment, every
word he said made her all the more cussedly determined to see the thing
through, and he certainly looked better when he came out ten minutes
later.
"That saved my life, darling," he said feelingly. "Now for it."
He vanished behind the green windows and came back in a few minutes
looking jubilant.
"Nice, fatherly old chap. Asked me if I realized the gravity of the step
I was taking and if you were twenty-one, because if you weren't I'd have
to get the consent of the State Guardian. And by the way, Marcella, that
reminds me. You'll simply have to do something to your hair."
"Why?" she asked, flirting it over her shoulder to see what was wrong
with it. It was tied very neatly with a big bow of tartan ribbon.
"You'll have to do it up, somehow--stow it under your hat, don't you
know--hairpins, old girl, smokers' best friends. You can't be married
with your hair down, or they'll think it isn't respectable."
"Oh," she said meekly.
"By the way, I got the religion wrong.
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