"Amusing to talk to?" hooted my Husband. "Never! The most that any poor husband can hope for is to prove amusing to talk about!"
"Who said Paul?" called that young person himself from the further shadows of the hallway.
"No one has," I laughed, "for as much as two minutes."
A trifle flushed from his nap, and most becomingly dishevelled as to hair, the Bridegroom stepped into the light. I heard his Bride give a little sharp catch of her breath.
"I—I think I must have been asleep," said the Bridegroom.
Twice the Bride swallowed very hard before she spoke.
"I—I think you must have, you rascal!" she said. It was a real victory!
Really my Husband and I would have been banged in the door if we hadn't jumped out as fast as we did!
George Keets and the May Girl came in from their walk just before supper. Judging from their personal appearances it had at least been a long walk if not a serene one. George Keets indeed seemed quite unnecessarily intent in the vestibule on taking the May Girl to task for what he evidently considered her somewhat careless method of storing away her afternoon's accumulation of pebble and shell. Every accent of his voice, every carefully enunciated syllable reminded me only too absurdly of what the May Girl had confided to me about "boys always trying to make her feel small." He was urging her now, I inferred, to stop and sort out her specimens according to some careful cotton-batting plan which he suggested.
"Whatever is worth doing at all, you know, Miss Davies," he said, "is worth doing well."