There was proof by word of mouth, too--long talks with Bertram in the dancing firelight when they laid dear plans for the future, and when she tried so hard to make her husband understand what a good, good wife she intended to be, and how she meant never to let anything come between them.
It was so earnest and serious a Billy by this time that Bertram would turn startled, dismayed eyes on his young wife; whereupon, with a very Billy-like change of mood, she would give him one of her rare caresses, and perhaps sigh: "Goosey--it's only because I'm so happy, happy, happy! Why, Bertram, if it weren't for that Overflow Annex I believe I--I just couldn't live!" It was Bertram who sighed then, and who prayed fervently in his heart that never might he see a real shadow cloud that dear face.
Thus far, certainly, the cares of matrimony had rested anything but heavily upon the shapely young shoulders of the new wife.

Domestic affairs at the Strata moved like a piece of well-oiled machinery.
Dong Ling, to be sure, was not there; but in his place reigned Pete's grandniece, a fresh-faced, capable young woman who (Bertram declared) cooked like an angel and minded her own business like a man.

Pete, as of yore, had full charge of the house; and a casual eye would see few changes.

Even the brothers themselves saw few, for that matter.
True, at the very first, Billy had donned a ruffled apron and a bewitching dust-cap, and had traversed the house from cellar to garret with a prettily important air of "managing things," as she suggested changes right and left.

She had summoned Pete, too, for three mornings in succession, and with great dignity had ordered the meals for the day.
But when Bertram was discovered one evening tugging back his favorite chair, and when William had asked if Billy were through using his pipe-tray, the young wife had concluded to let things remain about as they were.