The weeks leap with a bound; and the
months only grow long when you approach that day which is to make her
yours. There are no flowers rare enough to make bouquets for her;
diamonds are too dim for her to wear; pearls are tame.
----And after marriage the weeks are even shorter than before: you
wonder why on earth all the single men in the world do not rush
tumultuously to the Altar; you look upon them all as a travelled man
will look upon some conceited Dutch boor who has never been beyond the
limits of his cabbage-garden. Married men, on the contrary, you regard
as fellow-voyagers; and look upon their wives--ugly as they may be--as
better than none.
You blush a little at first telling your butcher what "your wife" would
like; you bargain with the grocer for sugars and teas, and wonder if he
_knows_ that you are a married man. You practise your new way of talk
upon your office-boy: you tell him that "your wife" expects you home to
dinner; and are astonished that he does not stare to hear you say it!
You wonder if the people in the omnibus know that Madge and you are just
married; and if the driver knows that the shilling you hand to him is
for "self and wife.
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