"Dear Doctor Sternroyd!" murmured Marjolaine.
He pulled himself together. "But this is so harebrained! A special licence is not so easily had. His Grace, the Archbishop of Canterbury—"
"Oh, my goodness! an Archbishop!"—cried Marjolaine, deeply impressed.
"The Archbishop of Canterbury requires excellent reasons."
"I 've told you," cried Jack impatiently, "we love each other!"
The antiquary could not help smiling. "I fear that would hardly satisfy his Grace!"
"Wicked old gentleman!" pouted Marjolaine.
"We'll find a reason," said Jack, confidently; and after a moment's thought: "Here you are! My leave 's up in a month: only just time for the honeymoon!"
"H'm!" said the Antiquary. "Even that does not seem to me sufficiently convincing."
He had risen, and now turned and looked at them as they sat watching him eagerly and hopefully. They looked so charming, so young, so innocent, and so deeply in love with each other, that the Doctor was touched. For years he had been buried in his musty old books, and suddenly he was confronted with life, with youth starting out on its career. It would be good to make these children happy.