"Any more so than Bess?" I demanded.
"Non, perhaps non," she answered, with a French shrug.
With beautiful tact Matthew fussed with his throttle, which I couldn't see stuck at all, the entire time he was driving me home, and left me with a careful embrace and also with relief in his face that I hadn't exploded over him. Owen is not like that to Bess; he just pours gas on her explosions and fans the resulting flame until it is put out by tears in his arms.
"Let's never get married at the same time any more, Ann," groaned Bess as Annette tried to put us both to bed that night before we fell dead on her hands.
"Don't speak to me!" was my answer as nearly as I can remember.
"I'll be glad to get Bess away from your influence," raged Owen at me the next day when I very nearly stepped on one of the little chickens that he was having run in and out from the conservatory.
"You'll want to bring her back in a week if both your tempers don't improve," was my cutting reply as this time I lifted another of his small pets with the toe of my slipper and literally flung it across the room.
"Great guns!" exploded Owen, as he retreated into the conservatory and shut the door.
The next night was the sixth of June and the night of my wedding eve. All Bess's bridesmaids and groomsmen were dining with her to rehearse her wedding and to have a sort of farewell bat with Matthew and me.
"What about your and Ann's wedding to Matthew, Miss Polly?" I heard Cale Johnson ask Polly as she and Matthew were untangling a bolt of wide, white-satin ribbon that I had tangled. "All the show to be of rustics?"