“Gods,” she said, at last, “I’ve done it this time!” “Well!” She took up the neat morocco purse, opened it, and examined the contents. Across that world was written in letters of light, “Endowment of Motherhood. His quiet, kindly smile implied his serene disbelief in any confessible thing. “You belong to me,” he said fiercely; “the marriage certificate is in my pocket. Supposing I made up my mind to marry some one of good enough family, but who was in a somewhat doubtful position, concerning whose antecedents, in fact there was a certain amount of scandal. Nothing else was put in their place, and they remained sotto voce, as it were, in his mind. That’s the wonder of it. Ramage!” she cried, and struggled to her feet.
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