With complete composure Laura slipped off one of her own and gave it to him. “We can use that, and get the real one later. It’s very irregular, but I do hope it won’t be unlucky. Still, you could hardly be expected to think of everything, poor dear, could you? Forgive my asking, but have you got the licence?”
Mr. Priestley beamed. Then he remembered that he was a cad and stopped beaming. Cads never beam. “Yes,” he said brusquely. “I——” He felt in his breast-pocket. “God bless my soul, I’ve left it in the other suit!” A most inferior cad, Mr. Priestley.
In due course Laura produced him at the registry office, complete with ring and licence. On the steps of it were Dora, George, Pat Doyle, Cynthia, Guy, Monica, and Alan. They raised a hearty cheer as the taxi drew up and its occupants emerged.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, and he had never said it with more feeling.
Cynthia hurried forward and drew him aside. “I told the others, and we thought we’d come up just in case you did take my advice,” she whispered. “I’m delighted, Mr. Priestley! And don’t bother—nobody will say a word to Laura. Come along inside.”
Mr. Priestley looked at Laura. Undoubtedly she was just as bewildered at seeing their escort as himself. She did not look very pleased either. Laura did not often blush, but she was making up for lost time now. The party trooped inside.
And there Mr. Priestley and his Laura were, without a shadow of doubt, married as tightly as the law could do it.
“I’ve booked a private room and something in the way of a wedding-breakfast at the Trafalgar Square Hotel, Priestley,” said Guy, amid the back-clapping and kissing later, as Mr. Priestley was wondering dazedly whether he ought to smack Dora on the back and kiss Pat Doyle, or smack Cynthia on the back and kiss the registrar. “You take Laura along in a taxi, and we’ll follow.”
Somehow this seemed to happen.
“God bless my soul!” said Mr. Priestley, still dazed.