“They’re all so good to me, and it just breaks my heart!” she said.

“At last—­it’s all over—­and you belong to me!” exulted Jim.  “I have been longing and longing for this, just to be alone with you, and have you to myself.  Are you tired, sweetheart?”

“No-o.  Just a little—­perhaps.”

“But you do love me?”

“Oh, Jim—­you idiot!” Julia slipped her hand into his, as he put one arm about her, and rested against his shoulder.  “When I think that I will often ride in carriages,” she mused, half smiling, “and that, besides being my Jim, you are a rich man, it makes me feel as if I were Cinderella!”

“You shall have your own carriage if you want it, Pussy!” he smiled.

“Oh, don’t—­don’t give me anything more,” begged Julia, “or a clock somewhere will strike twelve, and I’ll wake up in The Alexander, with the Girls’ Club rehearsing a play!”

When she had examined every inch of her Pullman drawing-room, and commented upon one hundred of its surprising conveniences, and when her smart little travelling case, the groom’s gift, had been partly unpacked, and when her blue eyes had refreshed themselves with a long look at the rolling miles of lovely San Mateo hills, then young Mrs. Studdiford looked at her Uncle Chester’s wedding gift.  She found a brush and comb and mirror in pink celluloid, with roses painted on them, locked with little brass hasps into a case lined with yellow silk.

“Look, Jim!” said Julia pitifully, not knowing whether to laugh or to cry.

“Gosh!” said the doctor thoughtfully, looking over the coat he was neatly arranging on a hanger.  “I’ve often wondered who buys those things!”

“I’ll give it to the porter,” Julia decided.  “He may like it.  Dear old Chess!” And Jim grinned indulgently a few minutes later at the picture of his beautiful little wife enslaving the old coloured porter, and gravely discussing with him the advantages and disadvantages of his work.

“You know, we could have our meals in here, Ju,” Jim suggested.  “Claude here”—­all porters were “Claude” to Jim—­“would take care of us, wouldn’t you, Claude?”

“Dat I would!” said Claude with husky fervour.  But Julia’s face fell.

“Oh, Jim!  But it would be such fun to go out to the dining-car!” she pleaded.

Jim shouted.  “All right, you baby!” he said.  “You see, my wife’s only a little girl,” he explained.  “She’s—­are you eight or nine, Julia?”

“She sho’ don’t look more’n dat,” Claude gallantly assured them, as he departed.

“I’ll be twenty-four on my next birthday,” Julia said thoughtfully, a few moments later.

“Well, at that, you may live three or four years more!” Jim consoled her.  “Do you know what time it is, Loveliness?  It’s twenty minutes past six.  We’ve been married exactly two hours and twenty minutes.  How do you like it?”

“I love it!” said Julia boldly.  “Do I have to change my dress for dinner?”