* * * * *
It is doubtful, from the way he waited with his soft hat dangling from soft fingers, if Morton had ever really expected anything else. Momentary unease gone, he was quiet and Southern and even indolent about it.
"We'll go to Greenwich first thing in the morning and be married," he said.
"Sh-h-h!" she whispered to his quietness. "Don't wake Marcia."
"Hattie—" he said, and started to touch her.
"Don't!" she sort of cried under her whisper, but not without noting that his hand was ready enough to withdraw. "Please—go—now—"
"To-morrow at the station, then. Eleven. There's a train every hour for
Greenwich."
He was all tan to her now, standing there like a blur.
"Yes, Morton, I'll be there. If—please—you'll go now."
"Of course," he said. "Late. Only I—Well, paying the taxi—strapped me—temporarily. A ten spot—old Hat—would help."