There was a pause of embarrassment; then Raoul spoke up bravely: “It’s not Miss Jeanie—it’s Miss May Bruce, and she’s quite eighteen.”
“Eighteen?” said the Judge. “She must be twenty-one—or have you the parents’ consent?”
“No,” said Raoul. “Eighteen is old enough in Alabama.”
“Twenty-one in Virginia,” said the Judge. “Give me the Code.”
The clerk handed him a musty leather volume from beneath a musty leather Bible. Twenty-one it was, sure enough.
“Why did you say she was only eighteen?” said the Judge, peevishly.
“But you married the others,” answered I.
“True,” said the Judge, “but I’ve had a telegram for you—from a Mr. Kirk Bruce, who, I take it, is a relative of the bride.”
Raoul’s face maintained its customary look of quiet determination. “Where is the nearest State where a lady is free to get married at eighteen?”
“South Carolina,” said the Judge.