“Why, George?”

“Wedding presents,” I said savagely, “exactly that, my dear.  This being forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don’t want, you never will want, and which you’ve got to live with or lose your friends.”

“Oh, George!” said Clara, gazing around helplessly, “it is terrible, isn’t it?”

“Look at that rug you are sitting on,” I said, glaring at a six by ten modern French importation.  “Cauliflowers contending with unicorns, surrounded by a border of green roses and orange violets—­expensive!  And until the lamp explodes or the pipes burst we have got to go on and on and on living over that, and why?—­because dear Isabel will be here once a week!”

“I thought Isabel would have better taste,” said Clara.

“She has—­Isabel has perfect taste, depend upon it,” I said, “she did it on purpose!”

“George!”

“Exactly that.  Have you noticed that married people give the most impossible presents?  It is revenge, my dear.  Society has preyed upon them.  They will prey upon society.  Wait until we get a chance!”

“It is awful!” said Clara.

“Let us continue.  We have five French rugs; no two could live together.  Five rooms desecrated.  Our drawing-room is Art Nouveau, furnished by your Uncle James, who is strong and healthy and may live twenty years.  I particularly abominate Art Nouveau furniture.”

“So do I.”

“Our dining-room is distinctly Grand Rapids.”

“Now, George!”

“It is.”

“Well, it was your Aunt Susan.”

“It was, but who suggested it?  I pass over the bedrooms.  I will simply say that they are nightmares.  Expensive nightmares!  I come to the lamps—­how many have we?”

“Fourteen.”

“Fourteen atrocities, imitation Louis Seize, bogus Oriental, feathered, laced and tasseled.  So much for useful presents.  Now for decoration.  We have three Sistine Madonnas (my particular abomination).  Two, thank heaven, we can inflict on the next victims, one we have got to live with and why?—­so that each of our three intimate friends will believe it his own.  We have water colors and etchings which we don’t want, and a photograph copy of every picture that every one sees in every one’s house.  Some original friend has even sent us a life-size, marble reproduction of the Venus de Milo.  These things will be our artistic home.  Then there are vases—­”

“Now you are losing your temper.”

“On the contrary, I’m reserving it.  I shan’t characterize the bric-a-brac, that was to be expected.”

“Don’t!”

“At least that is not marked.  I come at last to the silver.  Give me the list.”

Clara sighed and extended it.

“Four solid silver terrapin dishes.”

“Marked.”

“Marked—­Terrapin—­ha! ha!  Two massive, expensive, solid silver champagne coolers.”

“Marked.”