"Then say to me, though you had her you wanted me! It's true!"
"Though I had her, I wanted you. Yes; that's true."
"I don't ask you to say anything else. If there was one time you wanted me, though you had her, there must have been others; but I don't ask you to say more of her. It's enough, David; that silly pride of mine is down. It's all right!"
"You mean I can—"
"Your arms, David . . . Davey, your lips. . . . Oh, again! . . ."
In the next room, upon the second day, they were married by his father before her family and Myra and Deborah and his brother Paul.
They chose for their wedding trip the mountains of North Carolina and the train on which they journeyed halted in Indianapolis on the night of the news of the British attack and capture of Grandcourt.
A window was raised in the compartment which Alice and David shared; and as she lay awake, she heard, outside the screen, voices of men who were passing beside the car. One said, "I bet the Canadians were in it. They're always in an attack; they're getting the casualties."
For an instant, the words brought to Alice an image of Bolton killed and Fidelia returning.
Alice moved her hand in the dark and touched her husband.
