“’Yeh, he’ll want fried potatoes all right, and postum, and left-over pumpkin pie.  I have a picture of the big mutt in my mind now.  “Constance,” he’ll say, “for pity’s sake put more lard in the potatoes when you fry them.  They are too dry.  Take them back and cook them over.”  He will want his potatoes swimming in grease, he is bound to, that’s just the kind of man he is.  He will want everything greasy.  Oh, you’re going to have a sweet time with that big stiff.’

“I shook my fist at him.  ‘He will not!’ I cried.  ’Don’t you dare make fun of my husband.  He—­he—­’ Then I stopped and laughed.  ’Isn’t it funny how women always rush to defend their husbands when outsiders speak against them?  We may get cross at them ourselves, but no one else shall ridicule them.’

“’Yes, you are one loving little wife all right.  You sure are.  You won’t let any one say a mean word against your sweet little snookie-ookums.  Oh, no.  Wait till you get to darning his socks, you won’t be so crazy about him then.’

“‘I do get a little cross when I darn his socks,’ I confessed.  ’I don’t mind embroidering monograms on his silk shirts, but I can’t say that so far I really enjoy darning his socks.  Still, since they are his, it is not quite so bad.  I wouldn’t darn anybody else’s, not even my own.’

“‘Are you doing it already?’ Dan gasped.  He found it very hard to keep me and my husband straight in his mind.

“’I am just pretending.  I practise on father’s.  I want to be a very efficient darner, so my patches won’t make his poor dear feet sore.’

“‘Lord help us,’ cried Dan, springing to his feet and flinging himself through the hedge and slamming the door until it shook the house.  He went away angry every time.  He simply couldn’t be rational.  One day he said he guessed he would have to be the goat and marry me himself just to keep me out of trouble.  Then he blushed, and went home and forgot his hat.

“Came down to the last day.  ’It has simmered down to Harvey Grath and Buddy Johnson,’ I told him.  ’Harvey Grath,—­Buddy Johnson,—­Harvey Grath,—­Buddy Johnson.  Do run away, Danny, and don’t be a nuisance.  Harvey Grath,—­Buddy Johnson.’

“Dan neglected his patients until it is a wonder they did not all die,—­or get well, or something.  He sat up-stairs in his study watching an endless procession of Harvey Graths and Buddy Johnsons, coming, lingering, going.

“That night, regardless of the illuminating moon, I took Buddy Johnson to the lilac corner.  Dan was up-stairs smoking in front of his window.  Buddy didn’t know about that window, but I did.  He took my hand, and I let him.  I leaned my head against his shoulder,—­not truly against, just near enough so Dan could not tell the difference.  Buddy tried to kiss me, and nearly did it.  I wasn’t expecting it just at that minute.  Dan sprang from his chair before the conclusion, so he did not know if the kiss was a fact, or not.  Then I moved two feet away.  Dan came out and marched across to the lilacs.