Frosty and I would look at them, and then at each other; and Frosty's eyes were shiny, too.
Then we went on, with the motor purring love-songs and sliding the miles behind us, while Frosty and Edith cooed in the tonneau behind us, and didn't thank us to look around or interrupt.

Beryl and I didn't say much; I was driving as fast as was wise, and sometimes faster.

There was always the chance that the other car would come slithering along on our trail.
Besides, it was enough just to know that this was real, and that Beryl would marry me just as soon as we found a preacher.

There was no incentive to linger along the road.
It yet lacked an hour of sunset when we slid into Osage and stopped before a little goods-box church, with a sample of the same style of architecture chucked close against one side.
We left the girls with the preacher's wife, and Frosty wrote down our ages--Beryl was twenty-one, if you're curious--and our parents' names and where we were born, and if we were black or white, and a few other impertinent things which he, having been through it himself, insisted was necessary.

Then he hustled out after the license, while I went over to the dry-goods and jewelry store to get a ring.