“Different?”
“Yes.” Billy's tone was emphatic. “There are so many common, everyday marriages where—where—Why, Bertram, as if you could ever be to me like—like Mr. Carleton is, for instance!”
“Like Mr. Carleton is—to you?” Bertram's voice was frankly puzzled.
“No, no! As Mr. Carleton is to Mrs. Carleton, I mean.”
“Oh!” Bertram subsided in relief.
“And the Grahams and Whartons, and the Freddie Agnews, and—and a lot of others. Why, Bertram, I've seen the Grahams and the Whartons not even speak to each other a whole evening, when they've been at a dinner, or something; and I've seen Mrs. Carleton not even seem to know her husband came into the room. I don't mean quarrel, dear. Of course we'd never quarrel! But I mean I'm sure we shall never get used to—to you being you, and I being I.”
“Indeed we sha'n't,” agreed Bertram, rapturously.
“Ours is going to be such a beautiful marriage!”
“Of course it will be.”
“And we'll be so happy!”