“Let us hope not.”
“I don't believe we want any at all,” she said. “Most of them would be in bad taste, and you'd have to bury them at night, one at a time, while I held a lantern.”
“The policeman on the beat would come and ask us what we were doing,” he objected; “and when we told him we were only burying our wedding presents, he wouldn't believe us. We'd be dragged to the station and put into a noisome cell. Wouldn't it make a pretty story for the morning papers! The people who gave us the things would enjoy it over their coffee.”
“It would be pathetic, wouldn't it?”
“It would, Miss Thorne. I think we'd better not tell anybody until its all safely over, and then we can have a little card printed to go with the announcement, saying that if anybody is inclined to give us a present, we'd rather have the money.”
“You're a very practical person, Carl. One would think you had been married several times.”
“We'll be married as often as you like, dear. Judging by your respected aunt, one ceremony isn't 'rightfully bindin', and I want it done often enough to be sure that you can't get away from me.”
As they entered the gate, Uncle James approached stealthily by a roundabout way and beckoned to them. “Excuse me,” he began, as they came within speaking distance, “but has Mis' Ball give you furniture?”
“Yes,” replied Ruth, in astonishment, “why?”
“There's clouds to starboard and she's repentin'. She's been admirin' of it the hull mornin' in the attic. I was sot in the kitchen with pertaters,” he explained, “but the work is wearin' and a feller needs fresh air.”