I say in the midst advisably. Clara sat
helplessly in the middle of the parlor rug and I glowered from the
fireplace.
"My dear Clara," I said, with just a touch of asperity, "you've had your
way about the wedding. Now you've got your wedding presents. What are
you going to do with them?"
"If people only wouldn't have things marked!" said Clara irrelevantly.
"But they always do," I replied. "Also I may venture to suggest that
your answer doesn't solve the difficulty."
"Don't be cross," said Clara.
"My dear," I replied with excellent good-humor, "I'm not. I'm only
amused--who wouldn't be?"
"Don't be horrid, George," said Clara.
"It _is_ deliciously humorous," I continued. "Quite the most humorous
thing I have ever known. I am not cross and I am not horrid; I have made
a profound discovery. I know now why so many American marriages are not
happy."
"Why, George?"
"Wedding presents," I said savagely, "exactly that, my dear. This being
forced to live years of married life surrounded by things you don't
want, you never will want, and which you've got to live with or lose
your friends.
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