“What for?” in alarm, the recollection of the chattel mortgage returning to her.
“To ask her consent to our marriage.”
Marjorie sat back in her seat. “Would you wed me, the beggar maid?”
“Within the hour, if you wish.” He leaned nearer her, and his hot passionate words soothed her troubled heart, and finally dispelled her last lingering doubt. She gazed at him half shyly, never had he appeared to greater advantage, her chevalier “sans peur et sans reproche.” A piercing automobile siren brought her back from her day-dream.
“What time is it?” she asked in some alarm.
Barnard looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes of one.”
“Then we can just do it,” and snatching up her chain bag, she led the way to Pennsylvania Avenue.
“Are we going to Madame Yvonett’s?” he asked tenderly.
“Not now.” Her eyes smiled wistfully back into his.
“Madge, won’t you marry me?” stopping directly in front of her.