"Three days ago. It must be that I'm married. The family approves—it's the tallest of them, the one that was trouncing the little boy the other day when you were there. A fine woman, Will. Fine. A daughter, I should think. Anyhow, the old man made a big speech three days ago when they were all present—she, too, very solemn and shy, smiling at me. We'd been talking together about the place, she and I; and I suppose the old man had come to conclusions. He wasn't far wrong. So they made a sort of festival for us, with all the family mustered, and cakes and things set out and special dishes for us two. All very solemn, and the old man asked me something very carefully and I said aye, it would be well. And I suppose it means that I'm married. Don't you? They've given us the room at the end of the place. The old man rigged it up with bits of scantling from next door, and paper."
Adams was puzzled. Marriage had meant more to him than that, and it meant more still. It had meant, in fine, and in the perspective of jobs and domestic interludes, a burden. It had meant other things as well; but those things had, although they had varied the burden as to its content, left it, for all its variations, a burden.
Marriage had, in short, changed him. To Santvoort it appeared to furnish only a topic that was almost casual. Santvoort was not changed, and he was not burdened.
"Why didn't you ask me to come, Melchior?" Adams asked.
"How was I to know what was happening?" asked Santvoort. "When she stepped out and up to me with the dishes and looked up smiling prettily, and the old man talked, I thought it might be a sort of troth-taking. I saw nothing against it. It was only when the room was given to us that I saw it was a marriage. And I still saw nothing against it. But it was too late to make a guest of you. Well, I see nothing against it now."
"If it is a marriage," said Adams doubtfully.
"It's a marriage right enough," said Santvoort. "There have been other things going on. Neighbours have come in and grinned at me and said things. And the old man has put things up on the posts; tickets and flags and signs. And we've all been into town to the notary and I gave him my name. It's a marriage right enough."
"But you saw me yesterday," said Adams. "You could have told me as we went to buy my wine."
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