From a furtive glance at Allan John's graying face and the May Girl's somewhat startled stare, young Kennilworth looked up with a rather peculiarly glinting smile. "Oh, that's easy," said he, "I'm saving mine to break the head of some bally fool!" "And my last bottle," interposed George Keets quickly. "My last bottle--?" In his fine ascetic face the flush deepened suddenly again, but with the flush the faintest possible little smile showed also at the lip-line. "Oh, I suppose if I'm really going to have a wedding--in that little gray toy house, it's up to me to save mine for a 'Loving Cup' . . . claret . . . Something very mild and rosy . . . Yes, mine shall be claret." With her pretty nose crinkled in what seemed like a particularly abstruse reflection, the May Girl glanced up. "Bene--benedictine?" she questioned. "Is that the stuff that smells the way stars would taste if you ate them raw?" "I really can't say," mused Kennilworth. "I don't think I ever ate a perfectly raw star. At the night-lunch carts I think they almost invariably fry them on both sides." "Night-lunch carts?" scoffed Keets, with what seemed to me like rather unnecessary acerbity. "N-o, somehow I don't seem to picture you in a night-lunch cart when it comes time to share your last bottle of champagne with--with--'Miss Dancy-Prancy of the Sillies,' wasn't it?" "My last bottle isn't champagne!" flared young Kennilworth. "It's scotch! . . . And there'll be no Miss Anybody in it, thank you!" His face was really angry, and one twitch of his foot had knocked half his village into chaos. "Oh, all right, I'll tell you what I'm going to do with my last bottle!" he frowned. "The next-to-the-last-one, as you say, is none of your business! But the last one is going to my Old Man! . . . I come from Kansas," he acknowledged a bit shamefacedly. "From a shack no bigger than this room . . . And my Old Man lives there yet . . . And he's always been used to having a taste of something when he wanted it and I guess he misses it some. . . . And he'll be eighty years old the 15th of next December. I'm going home for it. . . . I haven't been home for seven years. . . . But my Old Man is going to get his scotch! . . . If they yank me off at every railroad station and shoot me at sunrise each new day,--my Old Man is going to get his scotch! "Bully for you," said George Keets. "All the same," argued the May Girl, "I think benedictine smells better." With a little gaspy breath somebody discovered what had happened to the Village. "Who did that?" demanded Paul Brenswick. "You did!" snapped young Kennilworth. "I didn't, either," protested Brenswick. "Why of all cheeky things!" cried the Bride. "Now see here," I admonished them, "you're all very tired and very irritable. And I suggest that you all pack off to bed." Helping the May Girl up from her cramped position, George Keets bent low for a single exaggerated moment over her proffered hand.