I was afraid he was sick--when I didn't see him." Billy laughed softly.
"No, he isn't sick, Marie; but you needn't go away again before the wedding--not to leave him on my hands.

I wouldn't have believed Cyril Henshaw, confirmed old bachelor and avowed woman-hater, could have acted the part of a love-sick boy as he has the last week or two." The rose-flush on Marie's cheek spread to the roots of her fine yellow hair.
"Billy, dear, he--he didn't!" "Marie, dear--he--he did!" Marie laughed.

She did not say anything, but the rose-flush deepened as she occupied herself very busily in getting her trunk-check from the little hand bag she carried.
Cyril was not mentioned again until the two girls, veils tied and coats buttoned, were snugly ensconced in the tonneau, and Peggy's nose was turned toward home.

Then Billy asked: "Have you settled on where you're going to live ?" "Not quite.

We're going to talk of that to-night; but we _do_ know that we aren't going to live at the Strata." "Marie!" Marie stirred uneasily at the obvious disappointment and reproach in her friend's voice.
"But, dear, it wouldn't be wise, I'm sure," she argued hastily.