“Yes. Do you like it, Baldy?”
He leaned back in his chair and surveyed her. “Not a bit—if you want the truth—I shall be jealous of Mr. Frederick Towne.”
“Silly. You know I shall never love anybody more than you, Baldy.”
She was perfectly unconscious of the revelation she was making, but he knew—and was constrained to say, “Then you don’t really love him.”
“Oh, I do. He’s much nicer than I imagined he might be.”
“Oh, well, if you think you are going to be happy.”
“I know I am—dearest,” she blew a kiss from the tips of her fingers. “Baldy, I’m going to have a great house with a great garden—and invite Judy and the babies—every summer.”
“Towne’s not marrying Judy and the babies. He’s marrying you. He won’t want all of your poor relations hanging around.”
“Oh, he will. He has been simply dear. I feel as if I can never do enough for him.”
She was very much in earnest. Baldy refrained from further criticism lest he cloud the happiness of her home-coming. The thing was done. They might as well make the best of it. So he said, “Do you always call him ‘Mr. Towne’?”