figure, still standing by the fireplace, for the strange jigging in his eyes. He was afraid that Mr. Ramsey would begin talking again. Anything seemed better than more talk. Words beat so on a fellow's brain. Like the heat, only worse. . . . We'll have done with all this talk, then, he thought and he said heavily:
"All right. I'll marry her—since everybody thinks I should."
He could never rightly remember that drive to Mistwell to buy the license. He knew that a motor had passed them once and covered them with dust, and he remembered the glare of a red and yellow sign by the roadside advertising fur coats and wraps. The man who sold him the license had seemed but half awake. He had yawned in open boredom as he asked questions and filled in blanks. Only Mr. Ramsey seemed cool, alert, masterful.
He talked cheerfully and kindly to Derek on the way homeward, and before parting advised him almost in the tone of a doctor to take care not to expose himself to the heat, but to keep quiet and cool until he should return in the afternoon to perform the ceremony.
He looked at the table after the Vicar had gone and wondered what meal it was that he had been eating a while ago. He took up the teapot and poured himself a little tea. It was tepid and bitter, not what he wanted. From the cupboard under the stairs he got a bottle of Scotch whiskey and half filled a tumbler, adding cold water from the pump outside. He drank it slowly and his brain felt clearer, but he wanted to be alone to think—if possible.
He went to the parlour and stretched himself on the sofa, his burning head pressed against the unfriendly beaded cushion. But, instead of thinking he became drowsy and
