He gasped: “Mrs. Major's—!”
The exhaustion of their mirth gave them pause at last. George wiped his running eyes; Mary tremendously blew her little nose, patted her gold hair where it eagerly straggled.
“I feel better after that,” George said.
She told him, “So do I—heaps. It's no good being miserable over what is past, is it, dear?”
“Not a bit; not the slightest. Come and sit on the sofa and let's see where we are.” She put that golden head upon his manly shoulder; he fetched his right arm about her; she nursed her hands upon the brown fist that came into her lap; that other brown hand he set upon the three.
Together they viewed their prospects—gloomy pictures.
“But we're fairly in the cart,” George summed up. “We are, you know.”
His ridiculous Mary gave him that lovers' ridiculous specific. “We've got each other,” she told him, snuggling to him.
George kissed her. He fumbled in his pockets. “I've got just about three pounds—over from what Marrapit gave me for the clue-hunting. I say, Mary, it's pretty awful.”
She snuggled the closer.