"Were you married when you came to my apartment in March?"
"No."
"Well, that's something," she said. "When were you married?"
"Does that matter?"
"Perhaps not. The fact remains. I'm naturally interested and curious, so tell me this: Was it a sudden infatuation for that child who rules the roost here,—a sudden burst of sentimentality that doesn't seem part of you, or—what? I think I have the right to ask."
"You have," said Franklin. "It was all very sudden. That's all I can tell you about it."
"I see. And now that you are tied up and more than ever under the microscopic eye of the public—what?"
"Well—what?"
"Are you going to be a little careless in the matter of marriage vows, or carry them out to the letter?" She stretched herself a little and smiled up at him, still fighting for the dream that had made her for a little while so young and gentle and unworldly.
"I asked you to believe that I am honest," said Franklin, who had never in his life been so puzzled as to a choice of words.