They stopped in front of the Baxter store and the old man reluctantly got out of the car. It was plain to be seen that he had not intended to stop there at all but was now obliged to do so to save his face. “I won’t be a minute,” he said, affecting a briskness that was calculated to deceive his son. Then he darted into the store, where, from a shadowy corner in the stove section, he shifted his uneasy gaze from the clock on the wall to the car at the curb. “How’s your wife, Sam?” inquired Oliver. Sammy grinned. “Little premature, ain’t you?” “Premature?” “Sure. I’m not going to be married till next week.” “Oh, I say, old chap, I’m sorry. I hadn’t heard of Laura’s death. Her name _was_ Laura, wasn’t it?” “Yep. And it still is. But her last name isn’t Parr any longer. It’s Collins. We’ve been divorced for five or six months, Oliver. Don’t look so darned serious. I’m not sensitive. It’s the way things are done these days. Nobody gets married for keeps nowadays. It’s not supposed to be proper. The idea is to try it out for a year or so and if it doesn’t work, zing! You up and get divorced. Pretty much the same thing as an armistice. The war has changed everything. Quite a few old married people I know of are taking advantage of the new order of things. I’ve had to change the beneficiaries in four or five policies already. They’ve suddenly awoke to the fact that it’s easy. God knows where it will end. But I haven’t time now to tell you how Laura and I came to split up. Some other time, if you’ll just remind me of it. The question of the hour is, will you be best man again for me next week, old boy? I’m marrying the sweetest little woman that ever came down the pike, and this time it’s for keeps. No monkey business. Her first husband was a Lieutenant Higby—we were in the same camp for months and months. That’s where I met her. Well, he didn’t appreciate her. That’s the long and short of it. Got to running around after other women. She up and canned him. Long and short of it. Laura, God bless her, fell in love with a chap named Collins. I don’t blame her, mind you—not a bit of it. She’s as square as anything. Of course, it hurt my pride a little when she ran away with him—but it simplified matters. I’m sure you will like Muriel. She’s as fine as they make ’em. We’re to be married next Thursday afternoon. Up in the city. Her people live there. How about it? Will you repeat for me? I promise you it will be the last time, Oliver. Never again. We both know what we’re about this time. We’ve cut all our wisdom teeth—and, by Gosh, if you ask me, I’ve had a couple pulled.” “We had a very jolly time at your first wedding, Sammy,” sighed Oliver. “Jane was maid-of-honor and—well, I would have sworn that you two were the kind who would stick.”