them. Although she knew he could not hear her words, instinctively she lowered her voice.
“Did you know—then—about—me?” she asked, with heightened color.
“No, only that there was a girl somewhere who, he hoped, would sit under the lamp some day. And when I asked him if the girl did like that sort of thing, he said yes, he thought so; for she had told him once that the things she liked best of all to do were to mend stockings and make puddings. Then I knew, of course, 'twas you, for I'd heard you say the same thing. So I sent him right along out to you in the summer-house.”
The pink flush on Marie's face grew to a red one. Her blue eyes turned again to John's broad back, then drifted to the long, imposing line of windowed walls and doorways on the right. The automobile was passing smoothly along Beacon Street now with the Public Garden just behind them on the left. After a moment Marie turned to Billy again.
“I'm so glad he wants—just puddings and stockings,” she began a little breathlessly. “You see, for so long I supposed he wouldn't want anything but a very brilliant, talented wife who could play and sing beautifully; a wife he'd be proud of—like you.”
“Me? Nonsense!” laughed Billy. “Cyril never wanted me, and I never wanted him—only once for a few minutes, so to speak, when I thought, I did. In spite of our music, we aren't a mite congenial. I like people around; he doesn't. I like to go to plays; he doesn't. He likes rainy days, and I abhor them. Mercy! Life with me for him would be one long jangling discord, my love, while with you it'll be one long sweet song!”
Marie drew a deep breath. Her eyes were fixed on a point far ahead up the curveless street.
“I hope it will, indeed!” she breathed.
Not until they were almost home did Billy say suddenly:
“Oh, did Cyril write you? A young relative of Aunt Hannah's is coming to-morrow to stay a while at the house.”
“Er—yes, Cyril told me,” admitted Marie.
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