Prologue says
Do you recall the situation on which the curtain has fallen thousands of times in thousands of well-regulated dramas?
Do you remember how they faced each other, and how there were tears in his eyes–or her eyes–or their eyes?
Do you mentally picture how he–or she–or they brushed the above-mentioned tears away?
Or let them remain where they were?
And how she whispered, “Yes, Jack” — or “Yes, William” — or “Yes, Eliphalet” — as the case might have been?
Or sometimes only plain “Yes?”
And how he, with the expertness gained many rehearsals, gathered her into his arms, and printed a kiss on her brow — or her cheek — or her hair — or behind her ear — but only in the rarest of instances on her lips?
And how the happy pair, now forever united — until the next performance — stood looking out over the footlights, estimating the box-office receipts and the amount of paper in the house, until the curtain fell, and the thoughts of the audience turned to the inner man?
And then? What happens next?
There are inquisitive souls who ask that question.
Will they live happily ever afterward?
Or will the matrimonial bark encounter one of the many obstacles which somehow have been forgotten?
The dramatist, looking upon marriage, or its forerunner, engagement, as the end of all things, neglects to tell us. Starting with a variable number of eligible young persons of opposite sex, he has paired them off in such combinations as his experience tells him will be pleasing to the magnate who produces the play, to the temperamental ladies and gentlemen who condescend to act in it, and, last and most important, to that source from which all royalties flow, that unaccountable, irresponsible, conscienceless creature, the audience. To the very portals of marriage he travels with his charges, but there he leaves them, to act as guide, philosopher, friend to others following in their footsteps.
And then?
Perhaps they do not live happily ever after. Perhaps she is extravagant, or he smokes in the parlor. Or he repents his rashness in recanting bachelorhood, and she reflects, as his faults become plain to her, that she might have done better. And they do not increase and multiply, and are unhappy, and so come to furnish material for another play.
But of the time between? Of the time immediately after she has said “Yes” and before she has begun to say “No?”