“That’s right,” said Crispin. “And flowers on the organ. I’ll order the confetti. The best way is to get it by the hundredweight.” Herrick tugged his moustache. “You’re sure,” he said humbly, “you’re sure, Nell, you wouldn’t like quite a quiet show? You know. Sort of hidin’ our light under a bushel.” “Positive, darling,” said Eleanor. “I want to splurge. Besides, we can go to Nice any old time. Can we have a guard of honour?” “There you are,” said Crispin. “They’re squabbling already.” “Look here,” said Madge, laughing. “Within limits of reason each of you’s anxious to do what the other wants. Am I right?” “My heart’s desire,” said David piously. “Liar,” said Eleanor. “Go on, Madge.” “Very well. I’ve got a plan. Certain things, like her _trousseau_, are left to the woman, and certain other things are always left to the man. Now, that’s a bad arrangement, because the woman gets what she wants and the man pleases himself.” “Why’s that bad?” said Eleanor suspiciously. “Because, if they’re to be happy, the woman should get what he wants, while the man should please her.” Finger to exquisite lip, Eleanor regarded her swain. “Yes, I’ve got that,” said the latter. “It’s rather subtle, but——” “It’s love,” said Madge. “That’s all. If Nell gets a frock and you don’t like it, she’ll loathe the sight of it.” “That’s right,” said Crispin. “And if you get a pair of boots and they frighten her, the very thought of the swine’ll make your gorge rise.” “Therefore,” continued Madge, bubbling, “the usual practice must be reversed. The things that a man does will become Nell’s business, while David must choose and manage what’s usually left to the girl.” There was a pregnant silence. Then— “My dear,” said her husband, “I take my hat right off. What a truly tidal brain-wave. David, we’ll go and look at chemises to-morrow morning.” “No, you won’t,” said Madge. “But we shall—David and I. And you and Nell will go and get David some boots.” “But I don’t want any boots,” cried David. “Besides——” “What d’you mean?” said Crispin. “You can’t be married in your socks. To-morrow morning Nell and I are going down the Edgware Road to choose your wedding foot-joy—a good-looking pair of roomy, elastic-sided, banana-coloured boots; and if we should see a nice pair of trousers . . .” The rest of the sentence was lost in a roar of laughter. When order had been restored— “They must each,” said Madge shakily, “make a list of what they need and where they’ld like the things got. Who’s your bootmaker, David?” “Stoop.” “Very well. Nell and Crispin’ll go to Stoop, and Nell’ll order some boots. Stoop’s got your last, and Crispin, being a man, will keep her straight. In the same way, you and I’ll go to Zyrot’s and you shall pick out some hats. They can be tried on me, and I’ll supervise your choice.” “That’s all very well,” said David, “but I know Crispin’s ideas of humour, and——”