“Yes, I shall, dear,” Nancy said. “I’ve always loved you somehow. It’ll—it’ll be the saving of me, Dick.”
“Well, then I do want to be nursed. I—I haven’t cried before since I had the measles, Nancy.”
“I’m glad you cried, now, then,” Nancy said.
“I suppose you’ll want to be married in the courtyard of the Inn,” Dick said some weeks later, when they were conventionally ensconced in Nancy’s own drawing-room; Hitty happily rattling silverware in the butler’s pantry in the rear, “with old Triton blowing his wreathed horn above us, and all the nymphs and gargoyles and Hercules as interested spectators. Well, go as far as you like. I haven’t any objection. I’ll be married in a Roman bath if you want me to, and eat bran biscuit and hygienic apple sauce for my wedding breakfast.”
“Betty and Preston are going to be married at the Inn,” Nancy said; “you know her mother’s an invalid, and they can’t have it at home. Do you know what I’d like to give them as a wedding present?”
“I don’t.”
“Well, you know, Preston’s firm has gone out of existence. The war simply killed it. They haven’t much money ahead, and he may have a harder time than he thinks getting located again.”