“Oh, Fibber!” she said, shaking her head.
“Well, most of the sport,” he corrected. He held her off at arm’s length and regarded her with admiration. “Do you know, I sometimes wonder what ever made you marry me.”
“Sometimes I wonder, too,” she answered, “but not often! I really think we’re the ideal married couple, sentimental when we’re alone, and critical when we have guests.”
“That’s true,” he admitted proudly, “and most people hate each other in private and love each other in public.” Michael hugged her to emphasize the correctness of their marital deportment.
“You are a dear old thing,” she said affectionately.
“Do you know I don’t feel a bit married,” he returned boyishly, “I just feel in love.”
“That’s the nicest thing you ever said to me,” she said, rising and kissing him. “But I’ve got to go and find Ethel now.”
“You’ve made me feel fairly dizzy,” he asserted, still holding her hand, “I need a drink to sober up.”
“Oh, Michael,” she cried reprovingly, and drew away from him “I believe you’ve been trying to get around me just for that!”
“Oh, no, you don’t,” he said smiling. “Now, do you?”