He had a glimpse of her, twisting up a strand of naturally wavy brown hair, a silver-backed hair-brush bright against it, her cheeks flushed to an even crimson, her blue corduroy jacket off, and, warmly intimate in its stead, a blouse of blue satin, opening in a shallow triangle at her throat. With a tender big-brotherliness he sought the room that was his, not Jack's. No longer was this the house of Other People, but one in which he belonged. "No," he heard himself explain, "she isn't beautiful. Istra Nash was nearer that. But, golly! she is such a good pal, and she is beautiful if an English lane is. Oh, stop rambling.... If I could kiss that little honey place at the base of her throat...." "Yes, Miss Winslow. Coming. _Am_ I ready for dinner? Watch me!" She confided as he came out into the hall, "Isn't it terribly confusing to have our home and even three toby-children all ready-made for us, this way!" Her glance--eyes that always startled him with blue where dark-brown was expected; even teeth showing; head cocked sidelong; cheeks burning with fire of December snow--her glance and all her manner trusted him, the outlaw. It was not as an outsider, but as her comrade that he answered: "Golly! have we a family, too? I always forget. So sorry. But you know--get so busy at the office----" "Why, I _think_ we have one. I'll go look in the nursery and make sure, but I'm almost positive----" "No, I'll take your word for it. You're around the house more than I am.... But, oh, say, speaking of that, that reminds me: Woman, if you think that I'm going to buy you a washing-machine this year, when I've already bought you a napkin-ring and a portrait of Martha Washington----" "_Oh weh!_ I knew I should have a cruel husband who----Joy! I think the maid is prowling about and trying to listen. 'Shhh! The story Laura will get out of her!" While the maid served dinner, there could scarce have been a more severely correct pair, though Carl did step on her toe when she was saying to the maid, in her best offhand manner, "Oh, Leah, will you please tell Mrs. Needham that I stole a handkerchief from my--I mean from her room?" But when the maid had been unable to find any more imaginary crumbs to brush off the table, and had left them alone with their hearts and the dessert, a most rowdy young "married couple" quarreled violently over the washing-machine he still refused to buy for her. Carl insisted that, as suburbanites, they had to play cards, and he taught her pinochle, which he had learned from the bartender of the Bowery saloon. But the cards dropped from their fingers, and they sat before the gas-log in the living-room, in a lazy, perfect happiness, when she said: "All the while we've been playing cards--and playing the still more dangerous game of being married--I've been thinking how glad I am to know about your life. Somehow----I wonder if you have told so very many?" "Practically no one."