“She left her marriage certificate,” she said dully, hardly conscious of her words. “I have it.”
“Here?—by you?” with quick curiosity.
“Yes; upstairs—in my little desk.”
“Ah,” he said, with almost a laugh of relief. “That settles it. You with the certificate and I with Harney! Why, we’ve got them.”
“We?” she said, looking up as though waking. “We?”
“Yes; we,” he answered.
He had come close to her and, standing at her side, bent his head in order to look more directly into her face.
“This ought to put an end, dear, to your objections,” he said gently; “you can’t do it alone. No woman could, much less one like you—young, inexperienced, ignorant of the world. You’ve got no idea what a big contest like this means. There must be a man to help you, and I must be that man, Mariposa. We can marry quietly as soon as you are ready. It would be better not to make any move until after that, as it would be much easier for me to conduct the campaign as your husband than as your fiancé. I’d take the whole thing off your shoulders. You’d have almost nothing to do, except be certain of your memories and dates, and I’d see to it that you were letter perfect in that when the time came. I’d stand between you and everything that was disagreeable.”
He took her hand, which for the moment was passive in his.
“When will it be?” he said, giving it a gentle squeeze; “when, sweetheart?”