It would be rather nice if there was a housemaid to whip in every evening and turn down the sheets and lay out the night wear; but....

One can’t have everything.

“I think we’re quite all right here?” said Osborn over her shoulder, with pride in his voice.

“Isn’t it all adorable?” she exclaimed.

“You aren’t going to put on The Frock, are you, dear girl, to do the cooking?”

“I’ll put it on afterwards, just before we dish up.”

“I’ll dress, too,” said Osborn.

They proceeded to the kitchen and played with all their new toys there.  There was not so much to do, after all, because Mrs. Amber, wise woman, had provided one of those ready-made but expensive little meals from the Stores.  You just added this to the soup and heated it; you put that in a casserole dish and shoved it in the oven; you whipped some cream; and you made a savoury out of tinned things.  You got out the plated vegetable dish which wasn’t to be used except on great occasions—­but this was one—­and put the potatoes in it.  You laid the table with every blessed silver thing you had, till it looked like a wedding-present show, as indeed it was.  You lighted four candles and put rose shades over them, almost like those at the hotel palace.  You ranged the dessert on the sideboard, for you must have dessert, to use those tiptop finger-bowls.  In each finger-bowl you floated a flower to match the table decorations.  You placed the coffee apparatus—­quite smart to make your own, you know—­on the sideboard, too.

Thus you had a swagger little dinner; most delectable.

Then you put on the frock of frocks, and cooled your rather sorched hands with somebody else’s gentlest kisses, the healing brand, and with some pinkish powder as smooth as silk.  Then somebody else put on his dinner-clothes and looked the finest man in the world.  Then you dished up the hot part of the dinner, and the creamy sweet was all ready at the other end of the table—­so easy to arrange these things gracefully without a parlourmaid, you know—­and absolutely everything was accomplished.

You sat down.

Love was about and around you.

What delicious soup by a clever wee cook!

Was there happiness at table?  There was not greater happiness in heaven.

CHAPTER IV

DREAMS

“You’ll lie still, Mrs. Kerr,” said Osborn, when they awoke for the first time in their own flat, “and I shall bring you a cup of tea.”

“But,” said the drowsy Marie, raising herself on an elbow, with all her shining hair—­far prettier than any one of the pinky caps with which she loved to cover it—­falling over her childish white shoulders, “I must get up; Osborn, really I must; there’s breakfast to cook—­and you mustn’t be late.”

“Lie still, Mrs. Kerr,” cried the young husband from the doorway.