“Why, Marlbury, of course!”
“Of course! Splendid place to get married in, delightful romantic old town!”
“It is a hateful place, but that doesn’t matter,” said Marjorie. She seemed to snuggle up a little closer to him, her lips were rippling with smiles, her bright eyes saw freedom and love, her heart was very warm with gratitude to this man who was helping her. But she could not guess, how could she, how in spite of the laughter on his lips there was a great ache and a feeling of emptiness at his heart.
“So now we have it all complete,” he said. “I was married in June, nineteen eighteen at Marlbury; my wife and I did not get on, we parted. She had a temper, so had I, a most unhappy affair, and there you are!” He laughed.
“All save one thing,” Marjorie said.
“Goodness, what have I forgotten?”
“Only the lady’s name.”
“You are right. She must have a name of course, something nice and romantic—Gladys something, eh?”
Marjorie shook her head.
“Clementine,” suggested Hugh. “No, won’t do, eh? Now you put your thinking cap on and invent a name, something romantic and pretty. Let’s hear from you, Marjorie.”