"Yes; that's the trouble with it."
"I can see Chic coming down the aisle now, with his face chalk-white and—"
"Don't," she broke in.
He looked down at her—surprised that she herself was taking this so seriously.
"My comrade," he said, "what you need is to play a little."
"Yes," she agreed eagerly.
"Then where shall we go? The world is before you."
He was in exactly the mood to which she herself had looked forward—a mood of springtime and irresponsibility. That was what he should be. It was her right to feel like that also.
"Oh," she exclaimed, "I'd like to go to all the places I could n't go alone! Take me."
"To the Café de Paris for lunch?"