“Adna,” she whispered, and he told the clerk that her father's name was Adna Adair. She told the truth about her mother's maiden name. She could afford to do that, and she could honestly aver that she had never had any husband or husbands “up to yet,” and that she had not been divorced “so far.” Also both declared that they knew of no legal impediment to their marriage. There are so few legal impediments to marriage, and so many to the untying of the knot into which almost anybody can tie almost anybody!
The clerk's facile pen ran here and there, and the license was delivered at length on the payment of a dollar. For one almighty dollar the State gave the two souls permission to commit mutual mortgage for life.
Gilfoyle was growing nervous. He told Kedzie that he was expected at the office. There were several advertisements to write for the next day's papers, and he had given the firm no warning of what he had not foreseen the day before. If they hunted for a preacher, Gilfoyle would get into trouble with Mr. Kiam.
If they had listened to the excellent motto, “Business before pleasure,” they might never have been married. That would have saved them a vast amount of heartache, both blissful and hateful. But they were afraid to postpone their nuptials. The mating instinct had them in its grip.
They fretted awhile in the hurlyburly of other love-mad couples and wondered what to do. Gilfoyle finally pushed up to one of the windows again and asked:
“What's the quickest way to get married? Isn't there a preacher or alderman or something handy?”
“Aldermen are not allowed to marry folks any more,” he was told. “But the City Clerk will hitch you up for a couple of dollars. The marriage-room is right up-stairs.”
This seemed the antipodes of romance and Gilfoyle hesitated to decide.
But Kedzie, knowing his religious ardor against religions, said:
“What's the diff? I don't mind.”