Billy looked concerned.
“Well, of course, Marie, if you'd rather have oatmeal and doughnuts,” she began with kind solicitude; but she got no farther.
“Billy!” besought the bride elect. “Won't you be serious? And there's the cake in wedding boxes, too.”
“I know, but boxes are so much easier and cleaner than—just fingers,” apologized an anxiously serious voice.
Marie answered with an indignant, grieved glance and hurried on.
“And the flowers—roses, dozens of them, in December! Billy, I can't let you do all this for me.”
“Nonsense, dear!” laughed Billy. “Why, I love to do it. Besides, when you're gone, just think how lonesome I'll be! I shall have to adopt somebody else then—now that Mary Jane has proved to be nothing but a disappointing man instead of a nice little girl like you,” she finished whimsically.
Marie did not smile. The frown still lay between her delicate brows.
“And for my trousseau—there were so many things that you simply would buy!”
“I didn't get one of the egg-beaters,” Billy reminded her anxiously.