Neither Wollaston nor Maria were ever very clear in their minds how it was done.  Both had thought marriage was a more complicated proceeding.  Neither was entirely sure of having said anything.  Indeed, Wollaston was afterwards quite positive that Gladys Mann answered nearly all the clergyman’s questions; but at all events, the first thing he heard distinctly was the clergyman’s pronouncing him and Maria man and wife.  Then the clergyman, who was zealous to the point of fanaticism, and who honestly considered himself to have done an exceedingly commendable thing, invited them to have some wedding-cake, which he kept ready for such emergencies, and some coffee, but Wollaston replied with a growl of indignation and despair.  This time Maria followed his almost brutally spoken command to follow him, and the three went out of the house.

“See that you treat your wife properly, young man,” the clergyman called out after him, in a voice half jocular, half condemnatory, “or there will be trouble.”

Wollaston growled an oath, the first which he had ever uttered, under his breath, and strode on.  He had released his hold on Maria’s arm.  Ahead of them, a block distant, was an Elevated station, and Maria, who seemed to suddenly recover her faculties, broke into a run for it.

“Where be you goin’?” called out Gladys.

“I am going down to the Jersey City station, quick,” replied Maria, in a desperate voice.

“I thought you’d go to a hotel.  There ain’t no harm, now you’re married, you know,” said Gladys, “and then we could have some supper.  I’m awful hungry.  I ain’t eat a thing sence noon.”

“I am going right down to the station,” repeated Maria.

“The last train has went.  What’s the use?”

“I don’t care.  I’m going down there.”

“What be you goin’ to do when you git there?”

“I am going to sit there, and wait till morning.”

“My!” said Gladys.

However, she went on up the Elevated stairs with Maria and Wollaston.  Wollaston threw down the fares and got the tickets, and strode on ahead.  His mouth was set.  He was very pale.  He probably realized to a greater extent than any of them what had taken place.  It was inconceivable to him that it had taken place, that he himself had been such a fool.  He felt like one who has met with some utterly unexplainable and unaccountable accident.  He felt as he had done once when, younger, he had stuck his own knife, with which he was whittling, into his eye, to the possible loss of it.  It seemed to him as if something had taken place without his volition.  He was like a puppet in a show.  He looked at Maria, and realized that he hated her.  He wondered how he could ever have thought her pretty.  He looked at Gladys Mann, and felt murderous.  He had a high temper.  As the train approached, he whispered in her ear,

“Damn you, Gladys Mann, it’s a pretty pickle you have got us into.”