The practical, broad-shouldered, common-sense children of this world would
have weighed many things one against the other. They would have taken into
account sentimentally, morally, pharisaically, or cynically, according to
their various attitudes towards life, the relations between Emmy and
Mordaunt Prince which had led to this tragic situation. But for Septimus
her sin scarcely existed. When a man is touched by an angel's feather he
takes an angel's view of mortal frailties.

He danced his jostled way up Holborn till the City Temple loomed through
the brown air. It struck a chord of association. He halted on the edge of
the curb and regarded it across the road, with a forefinger held up before
his nose as if to assist memory. It was a church. People were apt to be
married in churches. Sometimes by special license. That was it! A special
license. He had come out to get one. But where were they to be obtained? In
a properly civilized country, doubtless they would be sold in shops, like
boots and hair-brushes, or even in post-offices, like dog licenses. But
Septimus, aware of the deficiencies of an incomplete social organization,
could do no better than look wistfully up and down the stream of traffic,
as it roared and flashed and lumbered past. A policeman stopped beside him.
He appeared so lost, he met the man's eyes with a gaze so questioning, that
the policeman paused.

"Want to go anywhere, sir?"

"Yes," said Septimus. "I want to go where I can get a special license to be
married."

"Don't you know?"