He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked straight into her eyes. Said he:
“You understand that I mean what I say, Ellen?”
“Yes—George.”
“And that it isn’t going to be any different with me after we’re married.”
“It mustn’t be.”
“Out of your class—into mine—to stay there, Ellen.”
“To stay there. I’ve learned about the men who use the people to step up on, and then turn traitors. I am marrying your life, George. You are not marrying mine—what mine has been.”
They looked at each other gravely. And it was then and there that they took their real marriage vows.
The ceremony in the large drawing-room two days later was less impressive. In fact, it was absurd, as marriage ceremonies in the customary surroundings of pretentiousness usually are—to all who have an unspoiled sense of humor. The fussy and angry father, alternating thoughts of tenderness with longings to slay—the solemn-ass preacher in robes, with affected voice and sycophant manner toward rich Senator Clearwater—the pretty grotesque accidents due to the agitation of Eleanor and the awkwardness of the lank and long governor-elect—the snufflings and weepings of Aunt Louisa, glad Eleanor was making a marriage that improved the prospects of her own grown and married children for a large share of the Clearwater fortune—these and all other absurdities and hypocrisies made the wedding something for the happy pair to joke about on the train.
“How much did you tell Mr. Desbrough to give the clergyman?” she asked.