She returned his kiss, for although she knew all his mental deficiencies, she loved him dearly.
“I want to tell,” he whispered; “I’ve always wanted to tell, you know. What if we are poor? We’ll scrape along somehow. We’ll open a flower-shop or a laundry or something.”
She laid her face against his breast.
“I think we’d better tell, too,” she said. “That was the reason why I wrote the story. Writing stories is such a simple way of bringing the truth before the public.”
“But our marriage isn’t on a par with the state of the times nor the condition of your father’s estate,” he reminded her.
“No, not exactly,” she admitted; “but it was something that I felt should be known and which required careful leading up to.”
He kissed her again.
“But you’ll let it be known now?” he asked.
She did not say:
“I’ve wanted it known all the time, but you were so beastly afraid of your uncle.” Instead she murmured, “We’ll send an announcement to the newspapers to-night.”