“No. As little publicity as possible. Use the money to help those poor creatures who are sick with the disease called crime; that is the symptom. The cause is often bad environment, and the poverty which prevents improvement.”
“What a philosopher you are. That simple ceremony suits me exactly, Mary. What a sweet name you have. Why not have Mr. Dysart perform the ceremony? We'll be married with a ring.”
Mary laughed: “Where will you get yours?”
“Detectives are always prepared for emergencies. I bought them this noon, after I procured the license. They seemed to go together.”
“Well, Quincy, I think you are the most presumptuous mortal in existence. How dared you do such a thing—so many things, I mean?”
“Was not the prize worth even more of an endeavour? I have always thought Young Lochinvar was a model lover. But here we are.”
The Rev. Mr. Dysart received them with pleasant words of welcome, and reminiscences of life in Yonkers, and memories of Mary's mother, held Cupid in abeyance for an hour. Quincy passed the license to the clergyman who read it and looked up inquiringly.
“It's all right, isn't it?” Quincy asked.
“Why yes,—but—I never supposed—why, of course—but when?”
“Now, at once,” said Quincy. “We must be home by eleven, for they lock the doors.”