“Oh, no—no, indeed,” demurred Marie, in a shocked voice.
“Well, then, what is it?”
Marie hesitated; then, with the abandon of a hurt child that longs for sympathy, she sobbed:
“It—it's just that I'm afraid, after all, that I'm not good enough for Cyril.”
Billy stared frankly.
“Not good enough, Marie Henshaw! Whatever in the world do you mean?”
“Well, not good for him, then. Listen! To-day, I know, in lots of ways I must have disappointed him. First, he put on some socks that I'd darned. They were the first since our marriage that I'd found to darn, and I'd been so proud and—and happy while I was darning them. But—but he took 'em off right after breakfast and threw 'em in a corner. Then he put on a new pair, and said that I—I needn't darn any more; that it made—bunches. Billy, my darns—bunches!” Marie's face and voice were tragic.
“Nonsense, dear! Don't let that fret you,” comforted Billy, promptly, trying not to laugh too hard. “It wasn't your darns; it was just darns—anybody's darns. Cyril won't wear darned socks. Aunt Hannah told me so long ago, and I said then there'd be a tragedy when you found it out. So don't worry over that.”
“Oh, but that isn't all,” moaned Marie. “Listen! You know how quiet he must have everything when he's composing—and he ought to have it, too! But I forgot, this morning, and put on some old shoes that didn't have any rubber heels, and I ran the carpet sweeper, and I rattled tins in the kitchen. But I never thought a thing until he opened his door and asked me please to change my shoes and let the—the confounded dirt go, and didn't I have any dishes in the house but what were made of that abominable tin s-stuff,” she finished in a wail of misery.
Billy burst into a ringing laugh, but Marie's aghast face and upraised hand speedily reduced it to a convulsive giggle.