In the sudden accentuation of strain everybody turned as quickly as possible to poor Paul to decide as cheerfully as seemed compatible with good taste just what that gorgeously wholesome looking specimen of young manhood would or would not do probably under suggested circumstances. Nobody certainly wanted to consider the matter seriously, yet nobody with the Bride's scared eyes still scorching through his senses would have felt quite justified I think in mere shrugging the issue aside.
"No, I don't think Paul—would!" rallied my Husband with commendable quickness. "Not with those eyes! Not with that particular shade of crisp, controlled hair! . . . Complexions like his aren't made in one generation of righteous nerves and digestions! . . . Oh no—! Even in the last ditch the worst thing Paul would do would be to stalk round putting brand new gutters on a brand new house!"
"Bridge-building is my job—not gutters," grinned Paul unhappily.
"Stalk round building brand new bridges," corrected my Husband.
"Intoxicated with bridges!" triumphed young Kennilworth. "Doped with specifications!"
"But perhaps Allan John—doesn't know how to build bridges," murmured my Husband. "And perhaps in Allan John's family an occasional Maiden Aunt or Uncle has strayed just a——"
"With the faintest possible gesture of impatience, but still smiling, the Bridegroom rose from the table and lifted his Bride's hand very gently from his shoulder.
"Who started this conversation, anyway?" he quizzed.
"I did!" laughed everybody.
"Well, I end it!" said the Bridegroom.