When I and the Missus was alone, she says:
“Well, what’s the idear?”
“No idear at all,” I says, “except that our honeymoon trip to Palm Beach was a flivver and I feel like as if I ought to make up to you for it. And besides that, Bessie’s our guest and I ought to do somethin’ nice for she and her friend.”
“I’d think you must of been drinkin’ if I didn’t know better,” she says.
“You never do give me credit for nothin’,” says I. “To tell the truth, I’m kind of ashamed o’ myself for the way I been actin’ to’rd Bishop and Bess; but I’m willin’ to make amends before it’s too late. If Bishop’s goin’ to be one o’ the family I and him should ought to be good friends.”
“That’s the way I like to hear you talk,” says the Wife.
“But remember,” I says, “this trip ain’t only for their benefit, but for our’n too. And from the minute we start till we get home us two’ll pal round together just like we was alone. We don’t want them buttin’ in on us and we don’t want to be buttin’ in on them.”
“That suits me fine!” says she. “And now maybe you’ll tell me where we’re goin’.”
“You promise not to tell?” I ast her.
“Sure!” she says.
“Well,” I says, “that’s one promise you’ll keep.”
And I buried my good ear in the feathers.