Although Marie had known what the answer would be—­or she would not have asked the question—­it made her very happy.  It was delightful to hear only what one wanted to hear; to see only what one wanted to see.  Life appeared as a graceful spectacle, a sort of orderly carnival refined to taste.  There would, of course, be the big thrill in it—­Osborn.  It would be wonderful to have him coming home to her successful little dinners every evening.  People didn’t want a great deal, after all; all the discontented, puling, peevish, wanting people one met must be great fools; they had made their beds and made them wrong; the great thing, the simple secret, was to make them right.  A husband and wife must pull together, in everything.  Pulling together would be sheer joy.

“Osborn,” she said, “how well we understand each other, don’t we?”

“I should think we do,” whispered the young man.

“Few married people seem really happy.”

“They must manage life badly, mustn’t they?”

“I remember mother and father; mother likes the idea of my getting married, but they used often to be nagging about something.  Expenses, I think.”

“All that I have will be yours, you love,” said Osborn, with profound tenderness.

“But I shan’t ask for it,” said Marie, with a flash of intuition.  “You don’t know how careful I can be.  It won’t cost you much more than it does now; less, perhaps, because you won’t always be dining at the club.”

“But you’ll come into town and lunch with me very often, shan’t you, dearest?”

“Nearly every day.”

“Hush!”

Osborn got out of the chair and sat on its arm; Marie remained alone in the cushioned depths, looking flushed and brilliant; and Mrs. Amber came in slowly.

“Marie, I want to show Julia your dress; or would you like to show it yourself?”

“Is it the dress?” Osborn asked, looking down on the top of Marie’s shining head.

Mrs. Amber sighed and smiled and the bride-elect sat up, sparkling.

“I’ll come, mother.”

“Let me come, too,” said Osborn.

“I’ll bring it into the sitting-room and let everyone see it, shall I, Marie?” her mother asked hastily.

She hurried away and Marie followed her to the bedroom, while Osborn stood in the doorway, looking in at the two eager women about their joyous errand.  He put his hands in his pockets and smiled.  It was pleasant to be involved in the bustle about the precious thing they were unwrapping from swathes of tissue paper.  “Be careful, dear,” the elder woman kept saying, “there’s a pin here.”  Or “Don’t hurry, or you’ll have the pleats out of place.”  And Marie’s hands trembled over their task.  When all the paper was removed, Mrs. Amber said importantly, “Now just lift it up; give it to me like that; I’ll carry it in,” but Marie cried:  “No, I will,” and she threw the gown over her shoulder till her head emerged as from the froth of sea waves, and ran into the sitting-room with it.