He peered at it. “No-o. Yes, of course. It’s our marriage certificate, isn’t it?”
“It is. Mr. Thomas Fessenden, do you realize that you signed that document some twelve hours ago and didn’t even read the name just above your own?”
“Above mine? That must be your name, Betty!”
“Of course, silly boy. But you haven’t yet seen it. You were so excited that you may have married an Abiatha Prudence or a Mary Ann, for all you know.”
He gave her a penetrating glance, then snatched up the lamp and held it so that its rays fell full upon the certificate.
Just above his own signature was another in a feminine hand: “Roland Elizabeth Cary.”
He repeated it stupidly, “Roland Elizabeth Cary.”
She nodded, blushing hotly.
“You?”
“Yes—please.”