I registered for Hildreth and myself as “Mr. Arthur Mallory and wife,” in the register of an obscure hotel hear the noise and clatter of a hundred trains drawing continually out and in.

It made me happy and important to sign her name on the register as something belonging to me.

Once alone in the room, Hildreth, to my consternation, could talk of nothing else but Penton.

“—­to think that he would do such a thing to me, only to think of it!” she cried vehemently, again and again.

“If he believes in freedom for men and women, why was all this necessary? the sordidness of the public clamour? the divorce court?... oh, my poor, dear, sweet, wild poet-boy, you’re in for it!  Don’t you wish you were well out of all this and back in Kansas again?”

“No; I am glad.  As long as I am with you I don’t care what happens.  I love you, Hildreth!”

* * * * *

In the night she woke, screaming, from a nightmare.  I could hardly stop her.

“Hush, dearest ... darling ... sweetheart ...  I am with you; everything is all right” ... then, as she kept it up, “for God’s sake ...  Hildreth, do be quiet ... you’re all right ... the man you love is here, close by you ... no harm shall come to you.”

“Oh, Johnnie,” clutching me, quivering, “I’ve just had such a horrible dream,” sobbing as I took her tenderly in my arms....

“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.