And I could almost think how it would be with everybody being decent to each other and to the rest, just sheer because they were all happy.
Picture how I felt, then, when not six weeks later, on a morning all yellow and blue and green, and tied onto itself with flowers, little Mrs. Bride came standing at my side door, knocking on the screen, and her face all tear-stained.
"Gracious, now," I says, "did breakfast burn?"
She came in. She always wore white dresses and little doll caps in the morning, and she sit down at the end of my dining-room table, looking like a rosebud in trouble.
"Oh, Miss Marsh," she says, "it isn't any laughing matter. Something's happened between us. We've spoke cross to each other."
"Well, well," I says, "what was that for?"
I s'posed maybe he'd criticized the popovers, or something equally universal had occurred.
"That was it," she says. "We've spoke cross to each other, Miss Marsh."
And then it came to me that it didn't seem to be bothering her at all what it was about. The only thing that stuck out for her was that they'd spoke cross to each other.
"So!" I says. "And you've got to wait all day long before you can patch it up. Why don't you call him up?" I ask her. "It's only twenty cents for the three minutes—and you can get it all in that."