On the last words she lifted her head. He caught the gleam of tears on her lashes, and slipped the ring on to her finger; uttering the triple asseveration with a suppressed fervour rarely to be heard at the altar rails. Then the second hoop was added; and, still keeping possession of the fettered hand, he sat silent a moment, looking down at his achievement with an absurd sense of satisfaction. Quita was looking at it also, wondering if he could hear the hammering of her heart.
"Now we are really married," she murmured as simply as a child.
"Weren't we before?" he asked, on a note of amusement.
"I suppose so. It didn't feel like it."
"And does it feel more like it now?"
"Not much, yet. But it will, in time."
"Yes. In time."
The pause, and the emphasis smote her. But again she ignored the cloud no bigger than a man's hand; defying its power to veil her sunlight.
"The proper thing after a wedding is . . to kiss your wife," she remarked demurely, without looking up.
"Is it? I don't remember doing so last time."