Bert recovered himself quickly with another glass of wine.

"Kick in, Bill," he cried. "It's your turn now."

"I'm no hotair artist," Billy grumbled. "What'll I say, Saxon?
They ain't no use tellin' 'em how happy we are. They know that."

"Tell them we're always going to be happy," she said. "And thank
them for all their good wishes, and we both wish them the same.
And we're always going to be together, like old times, the four
of us. And tell them they're invited down to 507 Pine Street next
Sunday for Sunday dinner.--And, Mary, if you want to come
Saturday night you can sleep in the spare bedroom."

"You've told'm yourself, better'n I could." Billy clapped his
hands. "You did yourself proud, an' I guess they ain't much to
add to it, but just the same I'm goin' to pass them a hot one."

He stood up, his hand on his glass. His clear blue eyes under the
dark brows and framed by the dark lashes, seemed a deeper blue,
and accentuated the blondness of hair and skin. The smooth cheeks
were rosy--not with wine, for it was only his second glass--but
with health and joy. Saxon, looking up at him, thrilled with
pride in him, he was so well-dressed, so strong, so handsome, so
clean-looking--her man-boy. And she was aware of pride in
herself, in her woman's desirableness that had won for her so
wonderful a lover.

"Well, Bert an' Mary, here you are at Saxon's and my wedding