"Pray excuse me for contradicting either your noun or your preposition," apologized my Husband. "But even at its worst I'm quite willing to wager that the only thing in the world poor Allan John started out to 'make' was an oblivion--for--himself." "An oblivion?" scoffed the Bride. "Yes--even for one night!" persisted my Husband. "Even for one short little night! . . . Before the horror of 365 nights to the year and God knows how many years to the life--rang on again! Some men really like their wives you know,--some men--so no matter how thin-skinned and weak this desire for oblivion seems to you--" quickened my Husband, "it is at least a----" "Paul wouldn't!" frowned the Bride. In the sudden accentuation of strain everybody turned as quickly as possible to poor Paul to decide as cheerfully as seemed compatible with good taste just what that gorgeously wholesome looking specimen of young manhood would or would not do probably under suggested circumstances. Nobody certainly wanted to consider the matter seriously, yet nobody with the Bride's scared eyes still scorching through his senses would have felt quite justified I think in mere shrugging the issue aside. "No, I don't think Paul--would!" rallied my Husband with commendable quickness. "Not with those eyes! Not with that particular shade of crisp, controlled hair! . . . Complexions like his aren't made in one generation of righteous nerves and digestions! . . . Oh no--! Even in the last ditch the worst thing Paul would do would be to stalk round putting brand new gutters on a brand new house!" "Bridge-building is my job--not gutters," grinned Paul unhappily. "Stalk round building brand new bridges," corrected my Husband. "Intoxicated with bridges!" triumphed young Kennilworth. "Doped with specifications!" "But perhaps Allan John--doesn't know how to build bridges," murmured my Husband. "And perhaps in Allan John's family an occasional Maiden Aunt _or_ Uncle has strayed just a----" "With the faintest possible gesture of impatience, but still smiling, the Bridegroom rose from the table and lifted his Bride's hand very gently from his shoulder. "Who started this conversation, anyway?" he quizzed. "I did!" laughed everybody. "Well, I end it!" said the Bridegroom. "Oh, thunder!" protested young Kennilworth. In the hollow of his hand something that once had been the spongy shapeless center of a breakfast roll crushed back into sponge again. But in the instant of its crushing, crude as the modeling was, half jest, half child's play, I sensed the unmistakable parody of a woman's finger-prints bruising into the soft crest of a man's shoulder. Even in the absurdity of its substance the sincerity of the thing was appalling. Catching my eye alone, young Kennilworth gave an amused but distinctly worldly-wise little laugh. "Women do care so much, don't they?" he shrugged. A trifling commotion in the front hall stayed the retort on my lips.