She was seeing
Rod Spenser on the horse, behind him a girl, hardly more than
a child--under the starry sky exchanging confidences--talking
of their futures.
"So, you see, you are free," said Palmer. "I went round to an
American lawyer's office this afternoon, and borrowed an old
legal form book. And I've copied out this form----"
She was hardly conscious of his laying papers on the table
before her.
"It's valid, as I've fixed things. The lawyer gave me some
paper. It has a watermark five years old. I've dated back
two years--quite enough. So when we've signed, the marriage
never could be contested--not even by ourselves."
He took the papers from the table, laid them in her lap. She
started. "What were you saying?" she asked. "What's this?"
"What were you thinking about?" said he.
"I wasn't thinking," she answered, with her slow sweet smile
of self-concealment. "I was feeling--living--the past. I was
watching the procession."
He nodded understandingly. "That's a kind of time-wasting
that can easily be overdone."
"Easily," she agreed. "Still, there's the lesson. I have to
remind myself of it often--always, when there's anything that
has to be decided."
"I've written out two of the forms," said he. "We sign both.
You keep one, I the other. Why not sign now?"
She read the form--the agreement to take each other as lawful
husband and wife and to regard the contract as in all respects
binding and legal.
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