“Yeh.”
“Honest, it’s grand to be outdoors, ain’t it? The stars and—and chilliness and—and—all!”
“Listen to the garden stuff!”
“Silly!”
She squeezed his arm and drew back, shamefaced. His spirits rose.
“You’re a right loving little thing when you wanna be.”
They laughed in duet; and before the plate-glass window of a furniture emporium they must stop and regard the monthly-payment display, designed to represent the $49.50 completely furnished sitting room, parlor and dining room of the home felicitous—a golden-oak room, with an incandescent fire glowing right merrily in the grate; a lamp redly diffusing the light of home; a plaster-of-Paris Cupid shooting a dart from the mantelpiece; and, last, two figures of connubial bliss, smiling and waxen, in rocking chairs, their waxen infant, block-building on the floor, completing the picture.
“Gee, it looks as snug as a bug in a rug! Looka what it says too: ‘You Get the Girl; We’ll Do the Rest!’ Some little advertisement, ain’t it? I got the girl all right—ain’t I, hon?”
“Aw!”
“Look at the papa—slippers and all! And the kid! Look at the kid, Sweetness.”