Peter sat forward with the bride's hand tucked under his arm and presently he heard her laughing softly, delightedly.
"Peter, do you know what that is, that good smell I mean?"
"What do you think it is?"
"It's pie baking. Truly, don't you think I'm enough of a housewife to know that?"
"I know you're everything you ought to be."
"It is pie, there's no doubt about it, but we must pretend to be awfully surprised when the captain brings it out. But Peter, don't you like it?"
"Pie, my dear?"
"No, but like having everything so homey and—and—so genuine at our wedding?"
"I hope," said Peter, "it's genuine pie, but I see what you mean, my dear."
"It's an omen, almost, that we'll always have the good, comfortable, common things to fall back upon, if our marriage should not prove quite all we've dreamed it. It's been so perfect up to now; it must drop down out of the clouds some time."