"Oh—oh—boo-hoo—I'm so unhap—hap—py."
Perhaps Mrs. Temple was a little miffed at the couple that had led her astray and opened her own honeymoon with a wanton fib. In any case, the best consolation she could offer Marjorie was a perfunctory pat, and a cynicism:
"There, there, dear! You don't know what real unhappiness is yet. Wait till you've been married a while."
And then she noted a startling lack of completeness in the bride's hand.
"Why—my dear!—where's your wedding ring?"
With what he considered great presence of mind, Mallory explained: "It—it slipped off—I—I picked it up. I have it here." And he took the little gold band from his waistcoat and tried to jam it on Marjorie's right thumb.
"Not on the thumb!" Mrs. Temple cried. "Don't you know?"
"You see, it's my first marriage."
"You poor boy—this finger!" And Mrs. Temple, raising Marjorie's limp hand, selected the proper digit, and held it forward, while Mallory pressed the fatal circlet home.
And then Mrs. Temple, having completed their installation as man and wife, utterly confounded their confusion by her final effort at comfort: "Well, my dears, I'll go back to my seat, and leave you alone with your dear husband."