"There are both clout and kiss. Now show me the Special Licence."
He thrust his hand into a pocket behind the plastron of the khaki tunic and pulled out a note-case she had bought and given him. The shiny square of parchment-paper bearing the signature of his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury drew both their heads together over it. In a compartment meant for stamps was a hard, thin, metallic circle, shining yellow through tissue paper folds.
"The—Ring?" she whispered.
"The Ring!" He nodded, smiling, as she bent her face over it, kissed the tissue paper reverently, stuck the Licence back in its compartment, and gave him back the case.
"And you had these in your pocket this afternoon when I was such a horrid beast to you?"
"They were burning a hole right into my chest. Why, Pat, you're—crying!"
She half turned away, mopping her wet eyes with her flimsy little handkerchief.
"Because—because—it's so blessedly sweet and dear of you to have planned this. Do you—do you really want it so much?"
"More than anything under the sky," said Sherbrand. "And, don't you see, it settles the question of providing for you, splendidly! If we're married, and I get—pipped—Somewhere at the Front—" He stopped short, for one of her large hands firmly covered his mouth.
"I won't have it. You're not to speak like that, ever!" said a muffled voice above his head. "If you were killed—don't you understand—everything'd be over for me! It's a kind of nasty little Death—only to have you hint at it."