“What is it?” asked Wollaston, in a burst of anger.  “I call it a pretty pickle we are in, for my part.  Ten chances to one, Mr. Edgham has got the baby back home safe and sound by this time, anyway, and here we are, here is Maria!”

“There ain’t but one thing you can do,” said Gladys.  Her tone was forcible.  She was full of the vulgar shrewdness of a degenerate race, for the old acumen of that race had sharpened her wits.

“What! in Heaven’s name?” cried Wollaston.

The three had been slowly walking along, and had stopped near a church, which was lighted.  As they were talking the lights went out.  A thin stream of people ceased issuing from the open doors.  A man in a clerical dress approached them, walking quite rapidly.  He was evidently bound, from the trend of his steps, to a near-by house, which was his residence.

“Git married,” said Gladys, abruptly.  Then, before the others realized what she was doing, she darted in front of the approaching clergyman.  “They want to git married,” said she.

The clergyman stopped and stared at her, then at the couple beyond, who were quite speechless with astonishment.  He was inconceivably young for his profession.  He was small, and had a round, rollicking face, which he was constantly endeavoring to draw down into lines of asceticism.

“Who wants to get married?” asked the clergyman.

“Them two,” replied Gladys, succinctly.  She pointed magisterially at Wollaston and Maria.

Wollaston was tall and manly looking for his age, Maria’s dress touched the ground.  The clergyman had not, at the moment, a doubt as to their suitable age.  He was not a brilliant young man, naturally.  He had been pushed through college and into his profession by wealthy relatives, and, moreover, with his stupidity, he had a certain spirit of recklessness and sense of humor which gave life a spice for him.

“Want to get married, eh?” he said.

Then Wollaston spoke.  “No, we do not want to get married,” he said, positively.  Then he said to Gladys, “I wish you would mind your own business.”

But he had to cope with the revival of a wonderful feminine wit of a fine old race in Gladys.  “I should think you would be plum ashamed of yourself,” she said, severely, “after you have got that poor girl in here; and if she stays and you ain’t married, she’ll git talked about.”

The clergyman approached Wollaston and Maria.  Maria had begun to cry.  She was trembling from head to foot with fear and confusion.  Wollaston looked sulky and angry.

“Is that true—­did you induce this girl to come to New York to be married?” he inquired, and his own boyish voice took on severe tones.  He was very strong in moral reform.

“No, I did not,” replied Wollaston.

“He did,” said Gladys.  “She’ll get talked about if she ain’t, too, and the last train has went, and we’ve got to stay in New York all night.”