“I thought so,” said the preacher.  A glint of humour came into his eyes.  “You asked me what it would cost to get married.  If you’ll go down to City Hall, it will cost you exactly two dollars.  But if you care to be married here—­well, there’s an old scrub-woman I know who for nine years every Sunday has come to this church and put a quarter in the plate to keep this institution going for you.  And if you care to use it now it will cost you just what it has cost her.  Figure it out and send me a check, or else go down to City Hall.”

“I’ll pay up,” was the prompt reply.

At home he told Ethel about it with keen relish at the joke on himself.  And Ethel smiled rather tensely and said: 

“Don’t let’s make a joke of it, dear.  Let’s make it as much of a one as we can.”

But there was little or nothing to do.  And the next afternoon in church it felt so queer and unreal to her as she stood with Joe in front of the pulpit.  Behind her in the shadowy place were only Susette and Emily and the building superintendent’s wife.  No long rows of faces—­caring.  Only the hard murmur of the busy street outside.  No excited whispers here, no music and no flowers, no bridesmaids and no wedding gown.

“I pronounce you man and wife.”

Then what?

She took Susette tight in her arms for a moment.  Then Emily—­thank God for her!—­was whispering fiercely in her ear: 

“It’s going to be all right, my dear!  In a minute you’re going to laugh or cry!  Laugh!  It’s better!  Laugh! . . .  That’s right!”

Joe had his small car waiting outside; and waving good-bye to Emily, who was taking Susette to the park, they sped away to the river and off into the country.  Soon they were talking excitedly.

It was after dark when they returned, and as had been already planned they went to a cafe to dine, a gay place crowded full of people, music throbbing, voices humming.  Ethel wanted it like that.  She wanted to be lifted through.  Joe alarmed her now.  “Oh, don’t—­don’t be so considerate!” she wanted to exclaim to him.  “What good does it do?” As they smiled at each other, again and again she had to fight down an impulse to cry—­or shiver.  She would bite her lips and turn away and watch people, then turn quickly back and start talking rapidly.

At home, alone in Amy’s room, she sat at the dressing table there, her movements swift and feverish.  She had often looked at herself of late in her mirror in the nursery, but now she did not look into the glass.  Her hands were cold.  In a very few minutes she called to Joe.

And a little later, on her old bed by the cradle in the nursery, she lay violently trembling and staring intently up at the ceiling.

“What has happened?” she asked.  “Whose fault was it?  Mine?” With a strange thrill of fear and repulsion, she clenched her teeth and held herself until the fit of trembling passed.  “Is this real, Ethel Knight?  Do you mean to say this is what love is—­just this, just this?” She shook her head and bit her lips.  She asked, “Am I tied to this man for life?  I am not!  I can’t be!  This isn’t real—­it isn’t me!”