“Don’t be foolish, sweetheart,” I told him. “I really want to go, for one thing; and also if you made any great effort to get me out of it, you might just get me into trouble.... Better to let well enough alone ... I’ll be back, safe and sound.... Let’s enjoy what little time we have now....”
But he was not to be calmed. He kept pacing back and forth, talking impossible things and swearing politely over the way things were going, when he suddenly stopped and burst into smiles.
“Comment?” I inquired.
“I’ve got it!” he cried gleefully. “Just the thing! My God, but we’re dumb not to think of such a simple way!” He danced a jig of jubilation.
“What is it?” I asked. “Have you gone crazy?”
“We’ve got to get a license before we do anything else,” he finally explained. “We’ll go to a shop to-morrow and get you outfitted from pate to pied in the chicest apparel a mademoiselle can wear. Then we’ll trip along and visit a mairie somewhere outside of Paris.... Trés bien!”
“But how can I use my own name?” I objected, trying to find loopholes in his scheme.
“That’s just the reason for going outside the city, chère,” he explained. “We’ll drift out to some little burg and nobody will be the wiser about Miss Leona Canwick, born in Wakeham.”
“I wasn’t born in Wakeham.”
“Well, wherever you were born—it makes no difference.... And in a few short days from now, we’ll get us hitched tightly together pour la vie!”