"Marian's and mine; and the only reason why you can't be best man is that the best man will be my cousin, Peter Kenny."
"Is that straight?"
"On the level."
George concluded that there was sanity in P. Sybarite's eyes.
"Well, I certainly got to slip you the congrats!" he protested. "And say—you goin' to bounce Whigham and Wimper, too?"
"Yes."
"And whatcha goin' do then?"
"I? To tell you the truth, I'm considering joining the Union and agitating for an eight-hour Day of Days. This one of mine has been eighteen hours long, more or less—since I got those theatre tickets, you know—and I'm too dog-tired to keep my eyes open another minute. After I've had a nap, I'll tell you all about everything." ...
But he wasn't too tired to read his telegram, when he found himself again, and for the last time, in his hall bedroom.
It said simply: "I love you.—Marian."