“But, honestly, is it all necessary?” he sighed despairingly, as she seated herself and gathered the table-cloth into her lap. “Do you have to do so much of it all?”
“I do,” smiled Billy, “unless you want your brother to run the risk of leading his bride to the altar and finding her robed in a kitchen apron with an egg-beater in her hand for a bouquet.”
Bertram laughed.
“Is it so bad as that?”
“No, of course not—quite. But never have I seen a bride so utterly oblivious to clothes as Marie was till one day in despair I told her that Cyril never could bear a dowdy woman.”
“As if Cyril, in the old days, ever could bear any sort of woman!” scoffed Bertram, merrily.
“I know; but I didn't mention that part,” smiled Billy. “I just singled out the dowdy one.”
“Did it work?”
Billy made a gesture of despair.
“Did it work! It worked too well. Marie gave me one horrified look, then at once and immediately she became possessed with the idea that she was a dowdy woman. And from that day to this she has pursued every lurking wrinkle and every fold awry, until her dressmaker's life isn't worth the living; and I'm beginning to think mine isn't, either, for I have to assure her at least four times every day now that she is not a dowdy woman.”