“Yes, dead—and buried.”
She leaned back in her chair. She could not take her eyes from his face, and yet she said nothing. It could not be said that her face showed a trace of happiness, but there was, nevertheless, a strange sort of relief there.
For a long time neither spoke. But Beveridge's impetuous nature could not long endure this silence. “Well, Madge,” he broke out, “do you still want me?”
She did not answer.
“That's what I've come to know. If you 'll do it, we will be married to-night.”
“You couldn't—” her voice was low and dreamy. “You couldn't get a license before to-morrow,” she said.
“It's queer,” said Dick, “but that is the Beveridge of it. You can't tell what he is going to do next. I don't believe he knows himself half the time.”
The Captain, with Annie at the tiller and Dick stretched lazily out beside her, was skimming and bounding along off the Grosse Pointe light.
“Wasn't it—” Annie wore a conscious expression—“wasn't it rather sudden?”
“It must have been. But that is Beveridge.”