“Well, of all——”
“Yes, of all the slippery parties, I know you are the slipperiest and I have no idea of letting you get away. Am I right, Jim?”
Jim was too busy with a tart to be coherent. He nodded his head, however, and when Kent put the same question to Mère Tricot in French, she upheld him.
“It would be much more convenable if you were married. It is very easy to get married in war time. The authorities are not near so difficult to approach on the subject. I will see what can be done by the magistrate who married Jean and Marie, and no doubt if you interview your American Ambassador, much can be attended to in a short time.”
“Kent Brown, if you think——” sputtered Judy.
“I don’t think a thing, I just know,” said Kent very calmly. “Put on your hat, honey, and let’s take a little walk.”
“Well, all right—but——” Was this the Judy Kean who prided herself on so well knowing her own mind, calmly consenting to be married against her will? Was it against her will? She suddenly remembered the communings she had had with herself, in which she had cried out to Kent: “Why, why, did you not make me go with you?”
“I shall have to rip the lining out of my hat before I can go out,” she said quite meekly.
“The lining out of your hat?” questioned Kent.
“Yes, you see I went into mourning when—when——” and Judy, now that it was all over, still could not voice the terrible thing she thought had happened to Kent.