"Not at all," Mallory explained. "We'll go into the smoking room."
Marjorie leaped to her feet, aghast: "Elope two thousand miles to be married in a smoking room by a Yiddish drummer! Harry Mallory, you're crazy."
Put just that way, the proposition did not look so alluring as at first. He sank back with a sigh: "I guess I am. I resign."
He was as weary of being "foiled again" as the villain of a cheap melodrama. The two lovers sat in a twilight of deep melancholy, till Marjorie's mind dug up a new source of alarm:
"Harry, I've just thought of something terrible."
"Let's have it," he sighed, drearily.
"We reach San Francisco at midnight and you sail at daybreak. What becomes of me?"
Mallory had no answer to this problem, except a grim: "I'll not desert you."
"But we'll have no time to get married."
"Then," he declared with iron resolve, "then I'll resign from the Army."