People who make a study of such things will tell you for every man in the world there is just one woman who belongs to him. They may be thousands of miles apart, and it may so happen that they will never meet, but the fact remains that they were intended for each other just the same. He may marry and she may marry, but there will be no real, true happiness until they live their lives together. When this girl, trim and slim but shapely, stood on the table, the man who was going to be married looked on her and knew then that there was no other woman in the world for him—not even the one whom he had promised to marry. The others stood up and cheered and applauded her, while he sat there staring almost stupidly. Her bronze hair tumbled down over her bare shoulders and her laughing eyes took in the scene.
“And who is the one who is going to be married?” she asked smilingly. “I want to drink with him.”
“Get on your pins, old man, and drink with the lady,” called one, and he obediently arose and held a glass of wine toward her.
“So you are the one?” she asked, looking him over critically. “Well, here is that the woman you marry is as good a fellow as you look to be.”
That was at midnight.
When the clock struck two every guest was still in his place, and seated in the lap of the man at the head of the table—the host, the man who was to marry, become straightened out, and shake the crowd—was the girl. He had one arm around her, and they were drinking out of the same glass. Of course it wasn’t at all proper, but you see everything goes at a bachelor’s dinner, and in view of the fact that this was a last wild fling, apparently, it was all right. It was nobody’s business, anyhow, for a man may do as he likes even if he is on the verge of his own wedding.
“You will surely call,” she was saying between sips.
“Surely,” was the answer, “if you will allow me.”
“And if I don’t?”
“Then I will call anyhow.”