want to tell me now. Or that you’d been mighty foolish in worrying about it at all. And your trying to tell me just proves what I said about your being fine and decent—if you’d been less than that, you’d never have let it worry you at all. There’s never been the slightest thing against you—you can bet your life Mrs. Crosby would have found it—and she thinks you are the most marvellous person she’s ever met!”
“But, Jimmie—” Mimi made one last, despairing effort to stop him.
“But nothing, Mimi. There’s just one thing that counts now, nothing else in the world matters. I love you and you love me—oh, darling, I do love you so!” he almost cried softly as he took her in his arms and prevented utterance of any other words from her lips with his own. …
They were married on Thanksgiving Day—“those old Puritans who started this custom never knew what wise birds they were!” Jimmie gaily remarked when they came out of the church into the crisp November sunlight. The Crosbys gave a most elaborate wedding breakfast for them in their Park Avenue apartment—even in her happiness Mimi felt she was in a fantastic curio shop. Just a few friends, Mrs. Crosby had said when she asked the privilege of furnishing the bridal breakfast. There sat down some sixty guests and the supply of Veuve Clicquot and Pommery Sec seemed inexhaustible.
“I’ve got a cunning little surprise for you, Mimi,” Mrs. Crosby coyly whispered. “I know you’ll like it, for you told me you did. You and dear Jimmie run into the library and look at it all by your own little selves.” They did look. It was the marble monstrosity of Cupids and bows and arrows Mrs. Crosby had bought in Paris from the romantic-looking sculptor with “the big, dark eyes and long hair and the sweetest velvet jacket.” But Mr. Crosby, gruff and kindly and intensely practical, gave them a cheque—“You youngsters’ll know what you want better’n an old man like me—get what you want with it.”