“I love going to weddings, but I always regret I am not the bride.”
“Come, come,” said her husband, “that would be worse than the Mormons. However many husbands would you have?”
“Oh, I always want to keep my own old husband, but I want to be the bride.” At which he laughed immoderately, and said:
“I declare, Winifred, you are never happy unless you are playing the leading lady.”
“Of course not,” she retorted; “women always appreciate appreciation.”
They were much amused when I told them the story of my small boy, who, aged about seven, was to go to a wedding as a page in gorgeous white satin with lace ruffles and old paste buttons.
“I don’t want to go,” he remarked; “I hate weddings”—for he had officiated twice before. Something he said leading me to suppose he was a little shy, I soothingly answered:
“Oh, well, every one will be so busy looking at the bride that they will never look at you.”
To which the small gentleman indignantly replied: