“But where’s he?” he asked.  “Where’s the main squeeze?”

Winona looked proudly at Spike Brennon.

“I’m him,” said Spike.

“He’s him,” said Winona, and laid an arm protectingly across his shoulder.

“You wild little son of a gun!” He stared incredulously at the bride, then kissed her.  “You should say ‘he’s he,’ not ‘he’s him,’” he told her.

“Lay off that stuff!” ordered Winona.

“You come on home to trouble,” directed Wilbur.  He guided Spike to the car.

“It’s like one of these dreams,” said Spike above the rattle of the Can.  “How a pretty thing like her could look twice at me!”

Winona held up a gloved hand to engage the driver’s eye.  Then she winked.

“Say,” said Spike, “this is some car!  When I get into one now’days I like to hear it go.  I been in some lately you could hardly tell you moved.”

The front of the house was vacant when the Can laboured to the gate, though the curtain of a second-floor front might have been seen to move.  Winona led her husband up the gravelled walk.

“It’s lovely,” she told him, “this home of mine and yours.  Here you go between borders all in bloom, phlox and peonies, and there are pansies and some early dahlias, and there’s a yellow rosebush out.”

“It smells beautiful,” said Spike.  He sniffed the air on each side.

“Sit here,” said Winona, nor in the flush of the moment was she conscious of the enormity of what she did.  She put Spike into a chair that had for a score of years been sacred to the person of her invalid father.  Then she turned to greet her mother.  Mrs. Penniman, arrayed in fancy dress-making, was still damp-eyed but joyous.

“Your son, mother,” said Winona.  “Don’t try to get up, Spike.”

Mrs. Penniman bent over to kiss him.  Spike’s left went up accurately.

“He’s so nervous,” explained Winona, “ever since that French general sneaked up and kissed him on both cheeks when he pinned that medal on him.”

“Mercy!” exclaimed Mrs. Penniman.

“For distinguished service beyond the line of duty,” added the young wife, casually.

“I was so happy when I got your wire,” sputtered her mother.  “Of course, I was flustered just at first—­so sudden and all.”

“In the Army we do things suddenly,” said Winona.

Heavy steps sounded within, and the judge paused at the open door.  He was arrayed as for the Sabbath, a portentous figure in frock coat and gray trousers.  A heavy scent of moth balls had preceded him.

“What’s that new one I get?” asked Spike, sniffing curiously.

Winona pecked at her father’s marbled cheeks, then led him to the chair.

“Father, this is my husband.”

“How do you do, sir?” began the judge, heavily.

Spike’s left forearm shielded his face, while his right hand went to meet the judge’s.

“It’s all right, Spike.  No one else is going to kiss you.”