"I want some of his motto kisses. There's nothing in the
Broadway shops half so good."
The candy man stopped his pushcart in front of the old Madison Avenue
home. He had a holiday and festival air unusual to street peddlers.
His tie was new and bright red, and a horseshoe pin, almost
life-size, glittered speciously from its folds. His brown, thin face
was crinkled into a semi-foolish smile. Striped cuffs with dog-head
buttons covered the tan on his wrists.
"I do believe he's going to get married," said Honoria, pityingly. "I
never saw him taken that way before. And to-day is the first time in
months that he has cried his wares, I am sure."
Ives threw a coin to the sidewalk. The candy man knows his customers.
He filled a paper bag, climbed the old-fashioned stoop and handed it
in. "I remember--" said Ives.
"Wait," said Honoria.
She took a small portfolio from the drawer of a writing desk and from
the portfolio a slip of flimsy paper one-quarter of an inch by two
inches in size.
"This," said Honoria, inflexibly, "was wrapped about the first one we
opened."
"It was a year ago," apologized Ives, as he held out his hand for
it,
"As long as skies above are blue
To you, my love, I will be true."
This he read from the slip of flimsy paper.
"We were to have sailed a fortnight ago," said Honoria, gossipingly.
"It has been such a warm summer. The town is quite deserted. There is
nowhere to go. Yet I am told that one or two of the roof gardens are
amusing.
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