“This marrying is a bore,” he said. “Why do you insist on it? Marriage is only an empty form. It would be all the same—no one would know. Married people are not branded for all the world to see, after all. We shall never get tired of each other. It will be just the same, just as safe, more romantic. What do you think, Pam?”
He stared at her with odd intentness, as she stood in the shadow of the wide entrance door. She was wrapped from her soft dull hair to her shoe in a costly evening cloak which they had hurriedly bought on the way to the theater to cover her dusty traveling dress.
“I think that it has all been said, threshed out,” she returned firmly. “I don’t want romance—at the expense of respectability.”
The night-rattle of London swung by them as they stood in the shadow of the door poising their fate in their hands. The warm, misty streets were festooned with strings of red and yellow light. Pamela was reminded of those miserable omnibus rides from Portobello Road, when she had watched the words “OX FORCE—NINON SOAP—DUNN’S NOSTRUM” glitter and die on the face of a house.
Edred’s eyes, contracted and brilliant, tried to destroy her will. They were admiring, magnetic. But she was fiercely respectable; she had struggled, had seen the seamy side of life. She loved him, she was madly, wickedly infatuated with him, but his smooth claptrap about the romance of an irregular union did not take her in.
“You are jesting,” she said coldly; “jesting—in very bad taste.”
“Yes. Only a jest,” he returned, gripping her hand.
Three days after that they were married. She started a new, intoxicating career as mistress of the gorgeously appointed flat at Marquise Mansions.