“Can’t you, Roger?”
“Too late, Johnny,” came back the answer in a whisper of pain.
“Why?”
“She is my wife.”
I leaped from my chair in a sort of terror. “No, no, Roger, don’t say that! It cannot be.”
“But it is,” he groaned. “These eighteen months past.”
I stood dazed; all my senses in a whirl. Roger kept silence, his face turned to the pillow. And the laughter from below came surging up.
I had no heart affection that I was aware of, but I had to press my hand to still its thumping as I leaned over Roger.
“Really married? Surely married?”
“As fast and sure as the registrar could marry us,” came the smothered answer. “We did not go to church.”