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"I never thought it of you, Billy!" Mary exclaimed. "You're every hit as raw as Bert. But just the same…"
There was a rush of moisture to her eyes. Her voice faltered and broke. She smiled through her tears at them, then turned to look at Bert, who put his arm around her and gathered her on to his knees.
When they left the restaurant, the four walked to Eighth and Broadway, where they stopped beside the electric car. Bert and Billy were awkward and silent, oppressed by a strange aloofness. But Mary embraced Saxon with fond anxiousness.
"It's all right, dear," Mary whispered. "Don't be scared. It's all right. Think of all the other women in the world."
The conductor clanged the gong, and the two couples separated in a sudden hubbub of farewell.
"Oh, you Mohegan!" Bert called after, as the car got under way. "Oh, you Minnehaha!"
"Remember what I said," was Mary's parting to Saxon.
The car stopped at Seventh and Pine, the terminus of the line. It was only a little over two blocks to the cottage. On the front steps Billy took the key from his pocket.
"Funny, isn't it?" he said, as the key turned in the lock. "You an' me. Just you an' me."
While he lighted the lamp in the parlor, Saxon was taking off her hat. He went into the bedroom and lighted the lamp there, then turned back and stood in the doorway. Saxon, still unaccountably fumbling with her hatpins, stole a glance at him. He held out his arms.
"Now," he said.
She came to him, and in his arms he could feel her trembling.
BOOK II
CHAPTER I
The first evening after the marriage night Saxon met Billy at the door as he came up the front steps. After their embrace, and as they crossed the parlor hand in hand toward the kitchen, he filled his lungs through his nostrils with audible satisfaction.
"My, but this house smells good, Saxon! It ain't the coffee-I can smell that, too. It's the whole house. It smells… well, it just smells good to me, that's all."
He washed and dried himself at the sink, while she heated the frying pan on the front hole of the stove with the lid off. As he wiped his hands he watched her keenly, and cried out with approbation as she dropped the steak in the fryin pan.
"Where'd you learn to cook steak on a dry, hot pan? It's the only way, but darn few women seem to know about it."
As she took the cover off a second frying pan and stirred the savory contents with a kitchen knife, he came behind her, passed his arms under her arm-pits with down-drooping hands upon her breasts, and bent his head over her shoulder till cheek touched cheek.
"Um-um-um-m-m! Fried potatoes with onions like mother used to make. Me for them. Don't they smell good, though! Um-um-m-m-m!"
The pressure of his hands relaxed, and his cheek slid caressingly past hers as he started to release her. Then his hands closed down again. She felt his lips on her hair and heard his advertised inhalation of delight.
"Um-um-m-m-m! Don't you smell good-yourself, though! I never understood what they meant when they said a girl was sweet. I know, now. And you're the sweetest I ever knew."
His joy was boundless. When he returned from combing his hair in the bedroom and sat down at the small table opposite her, he paused with knife and fork in hand.
"Say, bein' married is a whole lot more than it's cracked up to be by most married folks. Honest to God, Saxon, we can show 'em a few. We can give 'em cards and spades an' little casino an' win out on big casino and the aces. I've got but one kick comin'."
The instant apprehension in her eyes provoked a chuckle from him.
"An' that is that we didn't get married quick enough. Just think. I've lost a whole week of this."
Her eyes shone with gratitude and happiness, and in her heart she solemnly pledged herself that never in all their married life would it be otherwise.
Supper finished, she cleared the table and began washing the dishes at the sink. When he evinced the intention of wiping them, she caught him by the lapels of the coat and backed him into a chair.
"You'll sit right there, if you know what's good for you. Now be good and mind what I say. Also, you will smoke a cigarette.-No; you're not going to watch me. There's the morning paper beside you. And if you don't hurry to read it, I'll be through these dishes before you've started."
As he smoked and read, she continually glanced across at him from her work. One thing more, she thought-slippers; and then the picture of comfort and content would be complete.
Several minutes later Billy put the paper aside with a sigh.
"It's no use," he complained. "I can't read."
"What's the matter?" she teased. "Eyes weak?"
"Nope. They're sore, and there's only one thing to do 'em any good, an' that's lookin' at you."
"All right, then, baby Billy; I'll be through in a jiffy."
When she had washed the dish towel and scalded out the sink, she took off her kitchen apron, came to him, and kissed first one eye and then the other.
"How are they now. Cured?"
"They feel some better already."
She repeated the treatment.
"And now?"
"Still better."
"And now?"
"Almost well."
After he had adjudged them well, he ouched and informed her that there was still some hurt in the right eye.
In the course of treating it, she cried out as in pain. Billy was all alarm.
"What is it? What hurt you?"
"My eyes. They're hurting like sixty."
And Billy became physician for a while and she the patient. When the cure was accomplished, she led him into the parlor, where, by the open window, they succeeded in occupying the same Morris chair. It was the most expensive comfort in the house. It had cost seven dollars and a half, and, though it was grander than anything she had dreamed of possessing, the extravagance of it had worried her in a half-guilty way all day.
The salt chill of the air that is the blessing of all the bay cities after the sun goes down crept in about them. They heard the switch engines puffing in the railroad yards, and the rumbling thunder of the Seventh Street local slowing down in its run from the Mole to stop at West Oakland station. From the street came the noise of children playing in the summer night, and from the steps of the house next door the low voices of gossiping housewives.
"Can you beat it?" Billy murmured. "When I think of that six-dollar furnished room of mine, it makes me sick to think what I was missin' all the time. But there's one satisfaction. If I'd changed it sooner I wouldn't a-had you. You see, I didn't know you existed only until a couple of weeks ago."
His hand crept along her bare forearm and up and partly under the elbow-sleeve.
"Your skin's so cool," he said. "It ain't cold; it's cool. It feels good to the hand."
"Pretty soon you'll be calling me your cold-storage baby," she laughed.
"And your voice is cool," he went on. "It gives me the feeling just as your hand does when you rest it on my forehead. It's funny. I can't explain it. But your voice just goes all through me, cool and fine. It's like a wind of coolness-just right. It's like the first of the sea-breeze settin' in in the afternoon after a scorchin' hot morning. An' sometimes, when you talk low, it sounds round and sweet like the 'cello in the Macdonough Theater orchestra. And it never goes high up,