living room, and by Lewisham's witticisms at the toilet tidies and the oleographs.
And after the chops and the most of the tinned salmon and the very new loaf were gone they fell to with fine effect upon a tapioca pudding. Their talk was fragmentary. "Did you hear her call me Madame? Mádáme—so!" "And presently I must go out and do some shopping. There are all the things for Sunday and Monday morning to get. I must make a list. It will never do to let her know how little I know about things. . . . I wish I knew more."
At the time Lewisham regarded her confession of domestic ignorance as a fine basis for facetiousness. He developed a fresh line of thought, and condoled with her on the inglorious circumstances of their wedding. "No bridesmaids," he said; "no little children scattering flowers, no carriages, no policemen to guard the wedding presents, nothing proper—nothing right. Not even a white favour. Only you and I."
"Only you and I. Oh!"
"This is nonsense," said Lewisham, after an interval.
"And think what we lose in the way of speeches,' he resumed. "Cannot you imagine the best man rising;—'Ladies and gentlemen—the health of the bride.' That is what the best man has to do isn't it?"
