"Just the way Doctor Temple and I did." She could not see the leaping flash of wild hope that lighted up Mallory's face. She only heard his voice across her shoulder: "Doctor? Doctor Temple? Is your husband a reverend doctor?" "A reverend doctor?" the little old lady repeated weakly. "Yes--a--a preacher?" The poor old congregation-weary soul was abruptly confronted with the ruination of all the delight in her little escapade with her pulpit-fagged husband. If she had ever dreamed that the girl who was weeping in her arms was weeping from any other fright than the usual fright of young brides, fresh from the preacher's benediction, she would have cast every other consideration aside, and told the truth. But her husband's last behest before he left her had been to keep their precious pretend-secret. She felt--just then--that a woman's first duty is to obey her husband. Besides, what business was it of this young husband's what her old husband's business was? Before she had fairly begun to debate her duty, almost automatically, with the instantaneous instinct of self-protection, her lips had uttered the denial: "Oh--he's--just a--plain doctor. There he is now." Mallory cast one miserable glance down the aisle at Dr. Temple coming back from the smoking room. As the old man paused to stare at the bridal berth, whose preparation he had not seen, he was just enough befuddled by his first cigar for thirty years to look a trifle tipsy. The motion of the train and the rakish tilt of his unwonted crimson tie confirmed the suspicion and annihilated Mallory's new-born hope, that perhaps repentant fate had dropped a parson at their very feet. He sank into the seat opposite Marjorie, who gave him one terrified glance, and burst into fresh sobs: "Oh--oh--boo-hoo--I'm so unhap--hap--py." Perhaps Mrs. Temple was a little miffed at the couple that had led her astray and opened her own honeymoon with a wanton fib. In any case, the best consolation she could offer Marjorie was a perfunctory pat, and a cynicism: "There, there, dear! You don't know what real unhappiness is yet. Wait till you've been married a while." And then she noted a startling lack of completeness in the bride's hand. "Why--my dear!--where's your wedding ring?" With what he considered great presence of mind, Mallory explained: "It--it slipped off--I--I picked it up. I have it here." And he took the little gold band from his waistcoat and tried to jam it on Marjorie's right thumb. "Not on the thumb!" Mrs. Temple cried. "Don't you know?" "You see, it's my first marriage." "You poor boy--this finger!" And Mrs. Temple, raising Marjorie's limp hand, selected the proper digit, and held it forward, while Mallory pressed the fatal circlet home. And then Mrs. Temple, having completed their installation as man and wife, utterly confounded their confusion by her final effort at comfort: "Well, my dears, I'll go back to my seat, and leave you alone with your dear husband."