“Well, that's all there is about it. What I've done can't hurt Kinney. If he ever does want to write his old facts out, he'll be glad to take my report of them, and—spoil it,” said Bartley, ending with a laugh.
“And if—if there had been anything wrong about it,” said Marcia, anxious to justify him to herself, “Mr. Ricker would have told you so when you offered him the article.”
“I don't think Mr. Ricker would have ventured on any impertinence with me,” said Bartley, with grandeur. But he lapsed into his wonted, easy way of taking everything. “What are you driving at, Marsh? I don't care particularly for what happened yesterday. We've had rows enough before, and I dare say we shall have them again. You gave me a bad quarter of an hour, and you gave yourself”—he looked at her tear-stained eyes—“a bad night, apparently. That's all there is about it.”
“Oh, no, that isn't all! It isn't like the other quarrels we've had. When I think how I've felt toward you ever since, it scares me. There can't be anything sacred in our marriage unless we trust each other in everything.”
“Well, I haven't done any of the mistrusting,” said Bartley, with humorous lightness. “But isn't sacred rather a strong word to use in regard to our marriage, anyway?”
“Why—why—what do you mean, Bartley? We were married by a minister.”
“Well, yes, by what was left of one,” said Bartley. “He couldn't seem to shake himself together sufficiently to ask for the proof that we had declared our intention to get married.”
Marcia looked mystified. “Don't you remember his saying there was something else, and my suggesting to him that it was the fee?”
Marcia turned white. “Father said the certificate was all right—”
“Oh, he asked to see it, did he? He is a prudent old gentleman. Well, it is all right.”