If she had brought such a message or implied it she would have walked right into the living-room of the parental hearts. But poor Kedzie lacked the genius and the inspiration of simplicity and frankness, and she marched up the steps in a panic which she disguised all too well in a pretense of scorn that proclaimed: “I am as good as you are. I have been in dozens of finer homes than this. You can't teach me anything, you old snobs. I've got your son, and you'd better mind your p's and q's.” Wotton opened the door and put on as much of a wedding face as he could. Jim saw that the old man was informed, and he said: “This is Wotton, my dear. He's the real head of the house.” Kedzie might better have shaken hands with him than have given him the curt nod she begrudged him. She looked past him to see Mrs. Dyckman, in whose arms she found herself smothered. Mrs. Dyckman, in her bride-fright, had rather rushed the situation. Kedzie hardly knew what to do. She was overawed by the very bulk as well as the prestige of her mother-in-law. She did not quite dare to embrace Mrs. Dyckman, and she could think of nothing at all to say. Mrs. Dyckman was impressed with Kedzie's beauty and paid it immediate tribute. “Oh, but you are an exquisite thing! No wonder our boy is mad about you.” Kedzie's heart pranced at this, and she barely checked the giggle of triumph that bounded in her throat. But the only thing she could think of was what she dared not say: “So you're the famous Mrs. Dyckman! Why, you're fatter than momma.” She said nothing, but wore one of her most popular smiles, that look of wistful sweetness that had melted countless of her movie worshipers. She was caught from Mrs. Dyckman's shadow by Jim's father, who said, “Don't I get a kiss?” and took one. Kedzie returned this kiss and found the old gentleman very handsome, not in the least like her father. Brides almost always get along beautifully with fathers-in-law. And so do sons-in-law. Women will learn how to get along together better as soon as it ceases to be so important to them how they get along together. After the thrill of the first collision the four stood in silenced embarrassment till Jim, eager to escape, said: “What room do we get?” “Cicely's, if you like,” his mother answered. Jim was pleased. Cicely was the duchess of the family, and she and her duke had occupied that room before they went to England. Cicely was a war nurse now, bedabbled in gore, and her husband was a mud-daubed major in the trenches along the Somme. Jim saw that his mother was making no stint of her hospitality, and he was grateful. He dragged Kedzie away. She was trying to take in the splendor of the house without seeming to, and she went up the stairway with her eyes rolling frantically.