“Who’s Winifred Wallace?” asked the surprised sailor.
“I’m all the Winifred Wallace there is,” said Bud penitently. “It’s my poetry name,—it’s my other me. I can do a heap of things when I’m Winifred I can’t do when I’m plain Bud, or else I’d laugh at myself enough to hurt, I’m so mad. Are you angry, Mr Charles?”
“Och! just Charles to you,” said the sailor. “Never heed the honours. I’m not angry a bit. Allow me! In fact, I’m glad to find the prince and the piano and the poetry were all nonsense.”
“I thought that poetry pretty middling myself,” admitted Bud, but in a hesitating way that made him look very guilty.
“The poetry,” said he quickly, “was splendid. There was nothing wrong with it that I could see; but I’m glad it wasn’t Kate’s—for she’s a fine, fine gyurl, and brought up most respectable.”
“Yes,” said Bud; “she’s better ’n any poetry. You must feel gay because you are going to marry her.”
“I’m not so sure of her marrying me. She maybe wouldn’t have me.”
“But she can’t help it!” cried Bud. “She’s bound to, for the witch-lady fixed it on Hallowe’en. Only, I hope you won’t marry her for years and years. Why, Auntie Bell ’d go crazy if you took away our Kate; for good girls ain’t so easy to get nowadays as they used to be when they had three pound ten in the half-year, and nailed their trunks down to the floor of a new place when they got it, for fear they might be bounced. I’d be vexed I helped do anything if you married her for a long while. Besides, you’d be sorry yourself, for her education is not quite done; she’s only up to Compound Multiplication and the Tudor Kings. You’d just be sick sorry.”
“Would I?”
“Course you would! That’s love. Before one marries it’s hunkydory—it’s fairy all the time; but after that it’s the same old face at breakfast, Mr Cleland says, and simply putting up with one another. Oh, love’s a wonderful thing, Charles; it’s the Great Thing, but sometimes I say ‘Give me Uncle Dan!’ Promise you’ll not go marrying Kate right off.”