I said airily, “Oh, about five hundred dollars.”

“Take out your pencil,” said Clara scornfully, “and write.”

When she finished her dictation, and I had added up the items with a groan, I was dumbfounded.  I said: 

“Clara, do you think it is wise—­do you think we have any right to get married?”

“Of course we have.”

“Then we must make up our minds to boarding.”

“Nonsense! we shall have everything just as we planned it.”

“But how?”

“Wedding presents,” said Clara triumphantly, “now do you see why it must be a church wedding?”

I began to see.

“But isn’t it a bit mercenary?” I said feebly.  “Does every one do it?”

“Every one.  It is a sort of tax on the unmarried,” said Clara with a determined shake of her head.  “Quite right that it should be, too.”

“Then every one who receives an invitation is expected to contribute to our future welfare?”

“An invitation to the house.”

“Well, to the house—­then?”

“Certainly.”

“Ah, now, my dear, I begin to understand why the presents are always shown.”

For all answer Clara extended the sheet of paper on which we had made our calculations.

I capitulated.

II

I pass over the wedding.  In theory I have grown more and more opposed to such exhibitions.  A wedding is more pathetic than a funeral, and nothing, perhaps, is more out of place than the jubilations of the guests.  When a man and a woman, as husband and wife, have lived together five years, then the community should engage a band and serenade them, but at the outset—­however, I will not insist—­I am doubtless cynically inclined.  I come to the moment when, having successfully weathered the pitfalls of the honeymoon (there’s another mistaken theory—­but let that pass) my wife and I found ourselves at last in our own home, in the midst of our wedding presents.  I say in the midst advisably.  Clara sat helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the fireplace.

“My dear Clara,” I said, with just a touch of asperity, “you’ve had your way about the wedding.  Now you’ve got your wedding presents.  What are you going to do with them?”

“If people only wouldn’t have things marked!” said Clara irrelevantly.

“But they always do,” I replied.  “Also I may venture to suggest that your answer doesn’t solve the difficulty.”

“Don’t be cross,” said Clara.

“My dear,” I replied with excellent good-humor, “I’m not.  I’m only amused—­who wouldn’t be?”

“Don’t be horrid, George,” said Clara.

“It is deliciously humorous,” I continued.  “Quite the most humorous thing I have ever known.  I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made a profound discovery.  I know now why so many American marriages are not happy.”