“All mothers have, I’m sure,” she told him.  “I’d have liked your mother to be my friend.  I’d have liked to write to her about you—­”

“God forbid,” he said fervently, and once more she gave way.

Later on that day they discussed ways and means.  His definite picture of getting married and staying in hotels in Sydney had made the dream concrete.  She had hitherto simply seen them both glittering along in an aura of Deliverance.  Right at the back of her mind she still clung to pictures of knightly mail, obtained from she had not the slightest idea where.  But that fitted badly with hotels in Sydney and conventions he was going to teach her.  In the evening they went to their favourite seat on the anchor and watched the phosphorescence shimmering away in ghostly paths to the star-splashed sky.

“Louis,” she said hurriedly, “how much does it cost you to get married in Australia?”

“Lord knows, I don’t,” he said, sitting up sharp.  “There’s a music-hall song about ‘She cost me seven and sixpence; I wish I’d bought a dog.’  But that’s in England.  I’ve a hazy notion that it’s much more expensive in Australia than England.  Why?”

“I’m wondering how we’re going to do it.  We’ve about eleven shillings in the world—­you see, uncle is meeting me in Melbourne.  I had a cable at Port Said to say so.  And I’m afraid I’ll have to do a little evasion.  I don’t know him at all, but he may think it his duty to see that I go with him to Wooratonga.  Or he may enquire into your prospects like uncles do—­”

“Good God!” he said, throwing his cigarette overboard and staring straight at her in horror.  “I hadn’t thought of that.”

“Nor had I. It was all just romance till you mentioned it to-day, and then—­probably because I was doing such a prosaic thing as cleaning spoons and forks, I saw all the details for the first time.  Wedding rings are made of gold.  They must cost a tremendous lot of money.  And if being married is only seven and sixpence, I don’t see how we are going to spare seven and sixpence out of eleven shillings—­we’ve got to eat something, and live somewhere.  You can’t eat marriage licences, nor use them as shelter.  I’ve seen one once, belonging to Mrs. Mactavish.  She kept it sewed inside the lining of her bodice, all among the bits of whalebone that made her stand up straight.  It’s a crackly thing like a cheque—­”

“Oh, do stop talking nonsense,” cried Louis, suddenly desperate when faced with a problem.  “Marcella, what are we going to do?  Oh, why did I spend that money?  Why were you such a fool as to pay it back to Fred?  He’s drunk it all by now.  It did him no good, and think how useful it would have been to us!”

“Don’t be so idiotic!  As if I’d be married with money belonging to him!  My goodness!  The best thing is not to be married at all, until we’ve worked for some money.”

“Oh yes,” he cried bitterly.  “Just like a woman, backing out now things are a bit difficult!  I tell you, if we’re parted when we get to Sydney I’ll be in with the first waster that comes along and start the whole beastly pub-crawl again—­”