“Yes. I was married two days ago.”
“Danton! You—married? You’re joking, old man.”
“Not in the least. I was married last Sunday—to Madge Yarnell.”
“Madge Yarnell! What!”
“Is Mrs. Charles Danton,” said the other.
Fessenden was too dumfounded to do aught but stare. His friend slipped an arm through his and turned him about.
“There’s room for us on the bench there. Let’s talk it over. Madge and Betty are doing the same down in the sand-hills now.”
Fessenden yielded without a word, and they seated themselves on the bench.
Danton was a man under thirty years. He was slight and pale, and had much of the abrupt manner of that ancestor who had come to Baltimore in the train of Jerome Bonaparte, and who, like his master, had found a wife there.
“You’re really married?” said Fessenden. “By Jove! I can’t get over it. To Madge Yarnell, too. Then what in the world has become of—of—ah—”