But he didn't seem angry; he seemed only gentle and sorry. And his voice sounded sorry, and kind.
"I think I knew it, too," he was saying, slowly; "knew it was wrong, all the while. But I didn't realize how wrong till I saw it was making you sad. At first it seemed to me that this would be the finer way, quiet and soon over, no fuss nor any crowd. I have seen weddings that were ribald and not sacred, and I wanted ours to be none of that. Just you and I and the minister, with Hamilton and English standing by; and then just you and I going away together, leaving no wise winking, no meaning whispers behind. And that was right,—but only half right; I have been selfish with you. It is a sober step for a girl like you; she wants her folks at such a time. We will wait now for your people."
She had paused to wait for his answer—his anger—with one foot upon the running board, one foot on the curb. But slowly, as his voice went gravely on and on, she turned and faced him and listened, incredulous. The words were distinct enough; they drummed at her ears, but they did not penetrate, not even after he had finished, until she stared about her and saw how far they'd come. They were far south of Grand Central and Forty-second Street. Then it went reeling through her.
He would have stepped out, but she pushed him back and followed him inside.
"Where were we going?" she gasped. But she knew—she knew! She wanted to laugh, and wanted to cry, and didn't know which to do.
"We have to get a license, you know," he told her soberly.
She decided then to cry, not much, just a little. But she made him smile.
"We've lost a lot of time," she sniffed brokenly. "You'd better tell him to hurry."
The driver had been disappointed; he had expected more of her. But then you couldn't never tell about them dames with real class. But he was deferential; he had recognized his fare.
"Where to, Mr. Blair?" he opened the door at that moment to ask. "We gotta step on 'er, if you still want to make it."