"There, there, darling!"
She was quiet now.
"In a few minutes we would have had the whole hotel breaking in at the
door ... thinking I was killing you."
* * * * *
She woke up again, and woke me up.
"Johnnie, find me some ink and a pen. I'm going to write that cad a
letter that will shrivel him up like acid."
"Can't you wait till morning, Hildreth?" sleepily.
"No ... I _must_ write it now."
I dressed. I went down to the hotel writing-room and came back with pen
and ink.
She sat up in bed and wrote the letter. She then read it aloud to me.
She was immensely pleased with her effort.
With a final gesticulation of vindictive, feminine joy, she succeeded in
spilling the whole bottle of ink on the white bed-spread.
"Now you've done it."
"We'll have to clear out early before the chambermaid comes in ...
we're only staying here for one night and can't waste our money paying
for the damage."
In the morning I bought the papers.
The _American_ had made a scoop. There it was, the story of the whole
thing on the front page.
"PENTON BAXTER SUES FOR DIVORCE
--------------------------
NAMES VAGABOND-POET AS CO-RESPONDENT"
There it stood, in big head-lines.
The actuality stared us in the face. We belonged to each other now. It
was no longer a summer idyll, but a practical reality.
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