"Charley—are you—sorry?"
He wriggled out of his dust-coat, tossing it on the gilt-canopied bed and crossed to her, lifting off her red sailor.
"Now that's a fine question for a ten-hours' wifey to ask her hubby, ain't it? Am I sorry, she asks me before the wedding crowd has turned the corner. Lord, honey, I never expected anything like you to happen to me!"
She stroked his coat-sleeve, mouthing back tears.
"Now everybody'll say—you're a goner—for sure—marrying a—Popular Store girl."
"If anybody got the worst of this bargain, it's my girl."
"My own boy," she said, still battling with tears.
"You drew a black sheep, honey, but I say again and again, 'Thank God, you drew one with golden fleece!'"
"That—that's the trouble, Charley—there's just no way to make a boy with money know you married him for any other reason."
"I'm not blaming you, honey. Lord! what have I got besides money to talk for me?"