“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.” “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, “it's 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?” “Well, I don't know,” Bartley began. “Have you any idea who wrote this?” “Oh, yes, I wrote it.” Witherby had the task before him of transmuting an expression of rather low cunning into one of wounded confidence, mingled with high-minded surprise. “I thought it had your ear-marks, Mr. Hubbard: but I preferred not to believe it till I heard the fact from your own lips. I supposed that our contract covered such contributions as this.” “I wrote it out of time, and on Sunday night. You pay me by the week, and all that I do throughout the week belongs to you. The next day after that Sunday I did a full day's work on the Events. I don't see what you have to complain of. You told me when I began that you would not expect more than a certain amount of work from me. Have I ever done less?” “No, but--” “Haven't I always done more?” “Yes, I have never complained of the amount of work. But upon this theory of yours, what you did in your summer vacation would not belong to the Events, or what you did on legal holidays.”