“Goosey! No, he didn't--a _little_ bit; but he did a great _big_ bit. As if you didn't know he was dying to come, Marie! But he simply couldn't--something about his concert Monday night. He told me over the telephone; but between his joy that you were coming, and his rage that he couldn't see you the first minute you did come, I couldn't quite make out what was the trouble. But he's coming to dinner to-night, so he'll doubtless tell you all about it.” Marie sighed her relief. “Oh, that's all right then. I was afraid he was sick--when I didn't see him.” Billy laughed softly. “No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before the wedding--not to leave him on my hands. I wouldn't have believed Cyril Henshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed woman-hater, could have acted the part of a love-sick boy as he has the last week or two.” The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow hair. “Billy, dear, he--he didn't!” “Marie, dear--he--he did!” Marie laughed. She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the little hand bag she carried. Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was turned toward home. 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 them. Although she knew he could not hear her words, instinctively she lowered her voice.