"Of what, dearest?"
"I don't know. Somehow it seems too good to last."
"Well, to-morrow we'll be married."
"Yes, we should have done that a year ago. It's all been a mistake. It didn't matter at first; nobody noticed, nobody cared. But now it's different. I can see it by the way the wives of the men look at us. I wonder do women resent the fact that virtue is only its own reward—they are so down on those who stray. Well, we don't care anyway. We'll marry and live our lives. But there are other reasons."
"Yes?"
"Yes. Garry talks of coming out. You wouldn't like him to find us living like this—without benefit of the clergy?"
"Not for the world!" she cried, in alarm.
"Well, he won't. Garry's old-fashioned and terribly conventional, but you'll take to him at once. There's a wonderful charm about him. He's so good-looking, yet so clever. I think he could win any woman if he tried, only he's too upright and sincere."
"What will he think of me, I wonder, poor, ignorant me? I believe I'm afraid of him. I wish he'd stay away and leave us alone. Yet for your sake, dear, I do wish him to think well of me."
"Don't fear, Berna. He'll be proud of you. But there's a second reason."