"Well, anyway, it seemed best to push it right through," said Jim, "especially as they persisted that they would do it again or die—or rather, Sally did!"
"Oh, Jim, don't!" wailed Sally's mother. "Poor, deluded child!"
"I don't mean that Keith wasn't fiery enough," Jim hastened to say. "He's a decent enough little fellow, and he's madly in love. So we all went up to the French church, and Father Marchand married them—"
"A child of mine!" said Mrs. Toland, stricken.
"Keith's father and I witnessed," pursued Jim, "and we both kissed the bride—"
"Sally! And she was such a dear sweet baby!" whispered Mrs. Toland, big tears beginning to run down her cheeks.
"Ah, Mother!" Constance said soothingly, at her mother's knees.
"Sally's of age, of course," Jim argued soothingly, "and one couldn't bring her home like a child. The thing would have gotten out, and she'd have been a marked girl for life! There's really no reason why they shouldn't marry, and the boy—Keith, that is, put her into a carriage quite charmingly, and they drove off. They'll go no farther than Tamalpais or the Hotel Rafael, probably, for Keith has to be back at work on Monday, and I made him promise to bring Sally here on Sunday night."
"And what will they live on?" Mrs. Toland asked stonily.
"That isn't worrying them. Sally has—what? From those bonds of her grandfather's?"