“Say you will, there’s a dear.”
“Yes, if you wish it. But——”
“What?”
“Clothes.”
“Nonsense. You’re jolly handsome in those togs—handsome no end,” he repeated. “Marry me tomorrow, Doris. There’s a dear.”
She leaned her face down upon his hand.
“We’re already married, Cyril. Up there I felt it. Even death couldn’t have separated us.”
“Thank God! Kiss me, Doris.” She obeyed.
“I’ll see Jackson,” he whispered. “He’ll manage it. Resourceful chap, Jackson. He’ll get us a chaplain like pullin’ a rabbit out of a hat.”
She laughed.