They went out and along the sunny road in silence. "Whom God
hath joined," the voice was now dinning into her ears. And she
was saying to herself, "Has GOD joined us? If so, why do I feel
as if I had committed a crime?" She looked guiltily at him--she
felt no thrill of pride or love at the thought that he was her
husband, she his wife. And into her mind poured all her father's
condemnations of him, with a vague menacing fear riding the crest
of the flood.

"You're sorry you've done it?" he said sullenly.

She did not answer.

"Well, it's done," he went on, "and it can't be undone. And
I've got you, Polly, in spite of them. They might have known
better than to try to keep me from getting what I wanted. I
always did, and I always shall!"

She looked at him startled, then hastily looked away. Even more
than his words and his tone, she disliked his eyes--gloating,
triumphant. But not until she was years more experienced did she
study that never-forgotten expression, study it as a
whole--words, tone, look. Then, and not until then, did she know
that she had instinctively shrunk because he had laid bare his
base and all but loveless motive in marrying her.

"And," he added, "I'll force father to give me a big interest
in the business very soon. Then--we'll announce it."