“And what difference did it make about our not proving that we had declared our intention?” asked Marcia, as if only partly reassured.
“No difference to us; and only a difference of sixty dollars fine to him, if it was ever found out.”
“And you let the poor old man run that risk?”
“Well, you see, it couldn't be helped. We hadn't declared our intention, and the lady seemed very anxious to be married. You needn't be troubled. We are married, right and tight enough; but I don't know that there's anything sacred about it.”
“No,” Marcia wailed out, “its tainted with fraud from the beginning.”
“If you like to say so,” Bartley assented, putting his napkin into its ring.
Marcia hid her face in her arms on the table; the baby left off drumming with its spoon, and began to cry.
Witherby was reading the Sunday edition of the Chronicle-Abstract, when Bartley got down to the Events office; and he cleared his throat with a premonitory cough as his assistant swung easily into the room. “Good morning, Mr. Hubbard,” he said. “There is quite an interesting article in yesterday's Chronicle-Abstract. Have you seen it?”
“Yes,” said Bartley. “What article?”
“This Confessions of an Average American.” Witherby held out the paper, where Bartley's article, vividly head-lined and sub-headed, filled half a page. “What is the reason we cannot have something of this kind?”