For one almighty
dollar the State gave the two souls permission to commit mutual
mortgage for life.
Gilfoyle was growing nervous. He told Kedzie that he was expected
at the office. There were several advertisements to write for the
next day's papers, and he had given the firm no warning of what
he had not foreseen the day before. If they hunted for a preacher,
Gilfoyle would get into trouble with Mr. Kiam.
If they had listened to the excellent motto, "Business before
pleasure," they might never have been married. That would have
saved them a vast amount of heartache, both blissful and hateful.
But they were afraid to postpone their nuptials. The mating
instinct had them in its grip.
They fretted awhile in the hurlyburly of other love-mad couples
and wondered what to do. Gilfoyle finally pushed up to one of
the windows again and asked:
"What's the quickest way to get married? Isn't there a preacher
or alderman or something handy?"
"Aldermen are not allowed to marry folks any more," he was told.
"But the City Clerk will hitch you up for a couple of dollars.
The marriage-room is right up-stairs."
This seemed the antipodes of romance and Gilfoyle hesitated
to decide.
But Kedzie, knowing his religious ardor against religions, said:
"What's the diff? I don't mind."
Gilfoyle smiled at last, and the impatient lovers hurried out
into the corridor. They would not wait for the elevator, but ran
up the steps. They passed a trio of youth, a girl and two young
fellows.
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