You've seen a bouncer handling a souse. He doesn't rough-house
him. He just puts his arm round his waist and kind of suggests he
should leave the place. Well, it's like that."
"But doesn't Kirk kick? He used to like having us around."
His friend laughed.
"Kick? Kirk? You should see him! He just sits there waiting for you to
go, and, when you do go, shuts the door on you so quick you have to
jump to keep from getting your coat caught in it. I tell you, those two
are about all the company either of them needs. They've got the
Newly-weds licked to a whisper."
"It's always the best fellows that get it the worse," said the other
philosophically, "and it's always the fellows you think are safe too. I
could have bet on Kirk. Six months ago I'd have given you any odds you
wanted that he would never marry."
"And I wouldn't have taken you. It's always the way."
The criticisms of the two thirsty men, though prejudiced, were
accurate. Marriage had undeniably wrought changes in Kirk Winfield. It
had blown up, decentralized, and re-arranged his entire scheme of life.
Kirk's was one of those natures that run to extremes. He had been a
whole-hearted bachelor, and he was assuredly a much-married man. For
the first six months Ruth was almost literally his whole world. His
friends, the old brigade of the studio, had dropped away from him in a
body.
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