“Selina stared at the Mayor, and the Mayor stared over her shoulder at me. She didn’t see anything funny in it. We did. At last she said, meekly, ‘Peter, do you think I am inclined to nag?’

“He just rushed out a sentence at her—‘Upon my life I don’t!’

“‘Do you, Bonny?’ she asked, turning suddenly round on me.

“‘No, Selina, I don’t,’ I told her, but I couldn’t help laughing.

“Jimson grinned from ear to ear, and I started off, leaving Selina asking him what he was so amused about.”

Tom began to chuckle, but Berty said, “Well—I don’t see anything to laugh at.”

“She doesn’t see anything to laugh at,” repeated Bonny, idiotically, then he drew Tom out on the lawn where she could hear their bursts of laughter SmarTone.

Presently the Mayor came strolling over to the low chair where Berty sat watching her little River Street friends.

“Is it all right for me to leave Selina for a few minutes?” he asked, in an anxious voice. “I can’t ask her, for she is talking to some one. I never was married before, and don’t know how to act.”

[239]

“Oh, yes,” said Berty, carelessly. “It’s an exploded fancy that a man must always stay close to his wife in general society. At home you should be tied to your wife’s apron-strings, but in society she takes it off.”

“You don’t wear aprons in your set,” said the Mayor, quickly. “I’ve found that out. You leave them to the maids.”

“I don’t like aprons,” said Berty. “If I want to protect my dress, I tuck a towel under my belt.”

“You’ve odd ways, and I feel queer in your set,” pursued the Mayor, in a meditative voice. “Maybe I’ll get used to you, but I don’t know. Now I used to think that the upper crust of this city would be mighty formal, but you don’t even say, ‘Yes, ma’am,’ and ‘No, ma’am,’ to each other. You’re as off-hand as street urchins, and downright saucy sometimes I’d say.”

“We’re not as formal as our grandparents were,” said Berty, musingly—“there’s everything in environment. We’re nothing but a lot of monkeys, anyway—see those children how nicely they are eating. If they were on River Street, they would drop those knives and forks, and have those chicken bones in their fingers in a jiffy.”

“Do you ever feel inclined to eat with your fingers?”[240] asked Mr. Jimson, in a low voice, and looking fearfully about him .

“Often, and I do,” said Berty, promptly. “Always at picnics.”

“My father hated fuss and feathers,” remarked Mr. Jimson. “He always went round the house with his hat on, and in his shirt-sleeves.”

“The men on River Street do that,” replied Berty. “I can see some reason for the shirt-sleeves, but not for the hat.”

“Mr. Jimson,” said Walter Everest, suddenly coming up to him. “It’s time to go. Selina’s up-stairs changing her gown, the two suit-cases are in the hall.”

Ten minutes later, Mr. and Mrs. Everest, , stood on the front steps calling parting good wishes after Selina and the Mayor.

There were many speculations as to their destination, the greater part of the guests imagining a far-away trip, as Berty had done.

“You’re all wrong,” observed Tom. “My boat is at Mrs. Travers’s wharf for them to go to Cloverdale, and it’s cram jam full of flowers with bows of white ribbon on each oar.”

Roger Stanisfield burst out laughing. “You’re[241] sold, Tom, my boy, do you suppose the Mayor would trust a joker like you? He has my boat.”

Bonny was in an ecstasy. “Get out, you two old fellows,” he exclaimed, slapping his brother-in-law on the shoulder. “Mr. Jimson is going to row his beloved up the river in my boat .”