The old bridge—she was feeling its loose flooring sag and shift under the cautious hoofs of the horse. She was seeing Rod Spenser on the horse, behind him a girl, hardly more than a child—under the starry sky exchanging confidences—talking of their futures.
"So, you see, you are free," said Palmer. "I went round to an American lawyer's office this afternoon, and borrowed an old legal form book. And I've copied out this form——"
She was hardly conscious of his laying papers on the table before her.
"It's valid, as I've fixed things. The lawyer gave me some paper. It has a watermark five years old. I've dated back two years—quite enough. So when we've signed, the marriage never could be contested—not even by ourselves."
He took the papers from the table, laid them in her lap. She started. "What were you saying?" she asked. "What's this?"
"What were you thinking about?" said he.
"I wasn't thinking," she answered, with her slow sweet smile of self-concealment. "I was feeling—living—the past. I was watching the procession."
He nodded understandingly. "That's a kind of time-wasting that can easily be overdone."
"Easily," she agreed. "Still, there's the lesson. I have to remind myself of it often—always, when there's anything that has to be decided."
"I've written out two of the forms," said he. "We sign both.
You keep one, I the other. Why not sign now?"