Mrs. Carter’s amiable, distressed face emerged a little from behind the big silver hot-water urn which had descended in the family, along with a Revolutionary sword and the copper warming-pans.
“Can you find out anything, Johnson?” she asked faintly. “I—I can’t! He doesn’t even say where they were married or—or anything.”
“Married in a lunatic asylum, I suppose,” Mr. Carter returned fiercely. “He says—as plain as can be—that he hasn’t known the creature three months!”
“Good gracious! I didn’t get as far as that, I——”
William’s mother stopped short; she was afraid of making matters worse. Emily, who had stopped eating to listen, came suddenly to the surface.
“Listen, mama! She’s French, isn’t she?”
“I—I suppose so, dear.” Mrs. Carter shuddered slightly. “I’m afraid she is.”
“Then I don’t see how Willie did it in three months. I read somewhere—in a magazine, I think—that it took months and months to court a French girl, and both parents have to say ‘yes,’ and you’ve got to have birth certificates, and the banns have to be posted for three weeks, and even then you can’t do it in a hurry; you’ve got to have a civil marriage and a religious marriage, and—and everything!”
“Good Lord, Emmy! How does a fellow run away with his best girl?” Leigh asked.
“He can’t!” Emily, having the floor, held it proudly. “He just can’t! It wouldn’t be legal; he’s got to have his birth certificate.”