“You have renounced your economic independence and you are now approaching the legal-vassal stage,” Steve warned Mary as they viewed the rooms of the new brown house. “Do you know what it all means?”
“No; probably that is why we women do so,” she retorted. “Luke says you are bully and everything is fino––and I set quite a store by Luke’s opinions.”
“You’ll have green-plush and golden-oak people call on you, I’m afraid, and a few who run to Sheraton and crystal goblets. There will be funny entertainments and dinner parties where the hostess fries the steak and then removes her apron to display her best silk gown.”
“I am prepared. And the maid will leave us before the month is over and I shall be her understudy. Well, I can. That is something.”
“I’m not going to ask permission to smoke––I’m going to sprawl in all the chairs and puff away at my leisure.”
“Do. I’ll try to remember it is good for moths.”
“Mary, are you satisfied?” he asked, wistfully.
“Of course. It never does to have it all perfect––to the last detail of the wallpaper designs. That never lasts.”
She went to lay her head on his shoulder for a brief second, almost boyishly darting away and running upstairs to see to some detail in which Steve was not concerned.