"Nobody expected you to make yourself tailored street dresses," said Paul; "but don't I all the time hear Madeleine and my aunt saying how the 'last _chic_ of a costume, the little indefinable touches that give a toilet distinction,' they have to fuss up themselves out of bits of lace and ribbon and fur and truck?" He was quoting, evidently, with an amused emphasis. Lydia leaned to him, her eyes wide in a mock solemnity. "Paul, I have a horrible confession to make to you. I _loathe_ the 'last _chic_, the little indefinable touches that give a toilet,' and so forth! It makes me sick to spend my time on them. What difference does it make to real folks if their toilets _aren't_ 'and so forth!'" She looked so deliciously whimsical with her down-drawn face of rebellious contrition that Paul was enchanted. "And this I learn when it's too late for me to draw back!" he cried in horror. "Woman! woman! this tardy confession" "Oh, there are lots of other confessions. Just wait." "Out with them!" "I don't know _anything_." "That's something," admitted Paul. "And you must teach me." "Oh, this docile little 1840 wife! Don't you know the suffragists will get you if you talk meek like that? What do you want to know? Volts, and dynamos, and induction coils?" "Everything," said Lydia comprehensively, "that you know. Books, politics, music--" "Lord! what a hash! What makes you think I know anything about such things?" "Why, you went through Cornell. You must know about books. And you're a man, you must know about politics; and as for music, we'll learn about that together. Aunt Julia and Godfather are going to give us a piano-player--though I know they can't afford it, the dears!" "People _are_ good to us." Paul's flush of gratitude for his good fortune continued. "You like music, don't you?" asked Lydia. "I guess so; I don't know much about it. Some crazy German post-grads at Cornell used to make up a string quartette among themselves and play some things I liked to hear--I guess it was pretty good music, too. They were sharks on it, I know. Yes; now I think of it, I used to like it fine. Maybe if I heard more--" "Oh, the evenings together!" breathed Lydia. "Doesn't it take your breath away to think of them? We'll read together--" Paul saw the picture. "Yes; there're lots of books I've always meant to get around to." They were silent, musing. Then Paul laughed aloud. Lydia started and looked at him inquiringly. "Oh, I was just thinking how old married folks would laugh to hear us infants planning our little castles in Spain. You know how they always smile at such ideas, and say every couple starts out with them and after about six months gets down to concentrating on keeping up the furnace fire and making sure the biscuits are good."