“Even then—he might come across the entry. He may have heard my name, too—you see my father was rather a bigwig in the Navy—and then, seeing the two together—”
“And what difference does it make? It isn’t really a secret marriage, you know, Jack—at least, it’s not to be a secret after I tell uncle Robert, which will be within twenty-four hours, you know. On the contrary, I shall tell him that we meant to tell everybody, and that it will be an eternal disgrace to him if he does nothing for you.”
“He’ll bear that with equanimity, dear. You won’t succeed.”
“Something will have to be done for us. When we’re married and everybody knows it, we can’t go on living as if we weren’t—indefinitely—it would be too ridiculous. Papa couldn’t stand that—he’s rather afraid of ridicule, I believe, though he’s not afraid of anything else. So, as I was saying, something will have to be done.”
“That’s a hopeful view,” laughed Ralston. “But I like the idea that it’s not to be a secret for more than a day. It makes it look different.”
“But I always told you that was what I meant, dear—I couldn’t do anything mean or underhand. Didn’t you believe me?”
“Of course—but somehow I didn’t see it exactly as I do now.”
“Oh, Jack—you have no more sense than—than a small yellow dog!”
At which very remarkable simile Ralston laughed again, as he caught sight of the creature that had suggested it—a small yellowish cur sitting on the pavement, bolt upright against the railing, and looking across the street, grinning from ear to ear and making his pink tongue shake with a perfectly unnecessary panting, the very picture of canine silliness.
“Yes—that’s the dog I mean,” said Katharine. “Look at him—he’s behaving just as you do, sometimes. But let’s be serious. What am I to do? Who is going to marry us?”