Then Billy asked:
“Have you settled on where you're going to live?”
“Not quite. We're going to talk of that to-night; but we do know that we aren't going to live at the Strata.”
“Marie!”
Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her friend's voice.
“But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure,” she argued hastily. “There will be you and Bertram—”
“We sha'n't be there for a year, nearly,” cut in Billy, with swift promptness. “Besides, I think it would be lovely—all together.”
Marie smiled, but she shook her head.
“Lovely—but not practical, dear.”
Billy laughed ruefully.
“I know; you're worrying about those puddings of yours. You're afraid somebody is going to interfere with your making quite so many as you want to; and Cyril is worrying for fear there'll be somebody else in the circle of his shaded lamp besides his little Marie with the light on her hair, and the mending basket by her side.”
“Billy, what are you talking about?”
Billy threw a roguish glance into her friend's amazed blue eyes.
“Oh, just a little picture Cyril drew once for me of what home meant for him: a room with a table and a shaded lamp, and a little woman beside it with the light on her hair and a great basket of sewing by her side.”
Marie's eyes softened.
“Did he say—that?”
“Yes. Oh, he declared he shouldn't want her to sit under that lamp all the time, of course; but he hoped she'd like that sort of thing.”
Marie threw a quick glance at the stolid back of John beyond the two empty seats in front of
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