“That is as it should be,” said Alfred, complacently. “Even when it is made out of sausages.”
“Dear, dear, Alfie, how you do harp on those sausages!”
“My dear, I went and lunched on them the other day—excellent, excellent! Don’t know how they do it for the money. I saw the whole process—went over the factory. Everything as clean as a new pin; you could eat your dinner off the floor.”
“I—I—don’t know,” said Regina. “It seems a little.—However, having put my hand to the plough, I am not one to look back. Once my daughter has married sausages, I will honor sausages!”
“You will certainly be able to honor a good deal that sausages will give her,” said Alfred Whittaker. “And now, Queenie, there’s a subject on which I have been trying to get a word with you for the last week or more. What are we going to give, Queenie, for our wedding present?”
But that was not a question to be answered off-hand. It was a matter requiring much consideration, consultation—divination, I might say. The major points of the coming ceremony were all arranged; the bride’s dress, the costumes of the maids, the favors for the men, and the wording of the invitations. It was the last and greatest, and perhaps the least easy to decide—what should be the present of the father and mother of the bride.