"Haven't I been doing it for the past week?"

"Oh, they always do that before they're married--so Mrs. Marigold
informed me. I mean afterwards."

"Don't you think, my dear," I interposed, "it depends on what your
hands hold out for him to eat?"

Her eyes wavered a bit under mine.

"If he's good," she answered, "they'll be always full of nice
things."

She sat, flushed, happy, triumphant, her arms straight down, her
knuckles resting on the leathern seat, her silver-brocaded,
slender feet, clear of the floor, peeping close together beneath
her white frock.

"And if he isn't good?"

"They'll be full of nasty medicine."

She laughed and pivoted round and, after running over the keys of
the piano for a second or two, began to play Gounod's "Death March
of a Marionette." She played it remarkably well. When she had
ended, Connor walked from the hearth, where he had been standing,
to her side. I noticed a little puzzled look in his eyes.

"Delightful," said he. "But, Betty, what put that thing suddenly
into your head?"