"You're not certain yet," Mary said. "I might not have had the disease."
"You had the symptoms. And there's virus in your sputum."
"Yes, but—"
"But, nothing! I've passed the word—and the boys in the other labs figure that there's merit in it. We're going to call it Barton's Therapy in your honor. It's going to cause a minor social revolution. A lot of laws are going to have to be rewritten. I can see where it's going to be illegal for children not to smoke. Funny, isn't it?
"I've contacted the maternity ward. They have three babies still alive upstairs. We get all the newborn in this town, or didn't you know. Funny, isn't it, how we still try to reproduce. They're rigging a smoke chamber for the kids. The head nurse is screaming like a wounded tiger, but she'll feel better with live babies to care for. The only bad thing I can see is that it may cut down on her chain smoking. She's been worried a lot about infant mortality.
"And speaking of nurseries—that reminds me. I wanted to ask you something."
"Yes?"
"Will you marry me? I've wanted to ask you before, but I didn't dare. Now I think you owe me something—your life. And I'd like to take care of it from now on."
"Of course I will," Mary said. "And I have reasons, too. If I marry you, you can't possibly do that silly thing you plan."
"What thing?"