“That's right,” he nodded. “Make it cost fifty dollars and not a cent less. We're goin' to have the best. And what's the good of an empty room? It'd make the house look cheap. Why, I go around now, seein' this little nest just as it grows an' softens, day by day, from the day we paid the cash money down an' nailed the keys. Why, almost every moment I'm drivin' the horses, all day long, I just keep on seein' this nest. And when we're married, I'll go on seein' it. And I want to see it complete. If that room'd be bare-floored an' empty, I'd see nothin' but it and its bare floor all day long. I'd be cheated. The house'd be a lie. Look at them curtains you put up in it, Saxon. That's to make believe to the neighbors that it's furnished. Saxon, them curtains are lyin' about that room, makin' a noise for every one to hear that that room's furnished. Nitsky for us. I'm goin' to see that them curtains tell the truth.”
“You might rent it,” Bert suggested. “You're close to the railroad yards, and it's only two blocks to a restaurant.”
“Not on your life. I ain't marryin' Saxon to take in lodgers. If I can't take care of her, d'ye know what I'll do? Go down to Long Wharf, say 'Here goes nothin',' an' jump into the bay with a stone tied to my neck. Ain't I right, Saxon?”
It was contrary to her prudent judgment, but it fanned her pride. She threw her arms around her lover's neck, and said, ere she kissed him:
“You're the boss, Billy. What you say goes, and always will go.”
“Listen to that!” Bert gibed to Mary. “That's the stuff. Saxon's onto her job.”
“I guess we'll talk things over together first before ever I do anything,” Billy was saying to Saxon.
“Listen to that,” Mary triumphed. “You bet the man that marries me'll have to talk things over first.”
“Billy's only givin' her hot air,” Bert plagued. “They all do it before they're married.”
Mary sniffed contemptuously.