“I’d like to walk into the country,” said Freda.
“So we shall. But first we must be married.”
He left her in the parlor of the little hotel while he went to find the justice of the peace. In half an hour he was back, exultant.
“Nothing dares to hamper us,” he declared. “Now, beloved.”
So they were married, in the little bare office of the justice of the peace, with a clerk from the court called in to witness that they were made man and wife by law. Gregory slipped the “circlet of gold” on the finger of his wife and as he made answers to the questions put to him, his eyes were on Freda as if he spoke to her alone, as if to her alone was he making this pledge of faith and loyalty and love. Freda did not look at him. For the moment she was fulfilling her pledge to life and Gregory was its instrument.
Then they were out again in the sunlight, choked with emotion, silent. Vaguely they walked back to the hotel. It was mid-afternoon.
“Shall we stay at the hotel?” asked Gregory.
“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter at all. Only it would be nicer in the country, wouldn’t it?”
“There should be inns,” said Gregory, frowning for the first time that day as he looked at the square, ugly, frame building which was before them, a knot of curious loafers on the porch. “In Ireland we have inns. They’re somehow different.”
“I truly don’t care where we are,” smiled Freda and for that his eyes glanced down to hers with admiration.