“Miss Duran!” he exclaimed, equally surprised, for he had thought the strollers scattered to the four winds.
“Mrs. Service, if you please!” Demurely; at the same time extending her hand with a faint flush. “Yes; I am really and truly married! But it is so long since we met, I believe I––literally flew to your arms!”
“That was before you recognized me,” he returned, in the same tone.
Susan laughed. “But how do you happen to be here? I thought you were dead. No; only wounded? How fortunate! Of course you came with the others. I should hardly know you. I declare you’re as thin as a lath and gaunt as a ghost. You look older, too. Remorse, I suppose, for killing so many poor Mexicans!”
“And you”––surveying her face, which had the freshness of morn––“look younger!”
“Of course!” Adjusting some fancied disorder of hair or bonnet. “Marriage is a fountain of youth for”––with a sigh––“old maids. Susan Duran, spinster! Horrible! Do you blame me?”
“For getting married? Not at all. Who is the fortunate man?” asked Saint-Prosper.
“A minister; an orthodox minister; a most orthodox minister!”
“No?” His countenance expressed his sense of the incongruity of the union. Susan one of the elect; the meek and lowly yokemate of––“How did it happen?” he said.