Where was I?  Oh, they married and came to New York.  Bob showed his college diploma, and accepted a position filling inkstands in a lawyer’s office at $15 a week.  At the end of two years he had worked up to $50, and gotten his first taste of Bohemia—­the kind that won’t stand the borax and formaldehyde tests.

They had two furnished rooms and a little kitchen.  To Jess, accustomed to the mild but beautiful savor of a country town, the dreggy Bohemia was sugar and spice.  She hung fish seines on the walls of her rooms, and bought a rakish-looking sideboard, and learned to play the banjo.  Twice or thrice a week they dined at French or Italian tables d’hote in a cloud of smoke, and brag and unshorn hair.  Jess learned to drink a cocktail in order to get the cherry.  At home she smoked a cigarette after dinner.  She learned to pronounce Chianti, and leave her olive stones for the waiter to pick up.  Once she essayed to say la, la, la! in a crowd but got only as far as the second one.  They met one or two couples while dining out and became friendly with them.  The sideboard was stocked with Scotch and rye and a liqueur.  They had their new friends in to dinner and all were laughing at nothing by 1 A. M. Some plastering fell in the room below them, for which Bob had to pay $4.50.  Thus they footed it merrily on the ragged frontiers of the country that has no boundary lines or government.

And soon Bob fell in with his cronies and learned to keep his foot on the little rail six inches above the floor for an hour or so every afternoon before he went home.  Drink always rubbed him the right way, and he would reach his rooms as jolly as a sandboy.  Jessie would meet him at the door, and generally they would dance some insane kind of a rigadoon about the floor by way of greeting.  Once when Bob’s feet became confused and he tumbled headlong over a foot-stool Jessie laughed so heartily and long that he had to throw all the couch pillows at her to make her hush.

In such wise life was speeding for them on the day when Bob Babbitt first felt the power that the giftie gi’ed him.

But let us get back to our lamb and mint sauce.

When Bob got home that evening he found Jessie in a long apron cutting up a lobster for the Newburg.  Usually when Bob came in mellow from his hour at the bar his welcome was hilarious, though somewhat tinctured with Scotch smoke.

By screams and snatches of song and certain audible testimonials of domestic felicity was his advent proclaimed.  When she heard his foot on the stairs the old maid in the hall room always stuffed cotton into her ears.  At first Jessie had shrunk from the rudeness and favor of these spiritual greetings, but as the fog of the false Bohemia gradually encompassed her she came to accept them as love’s true and proper greeting.

Bob came in without a word, smiled, kissed her neatly but noiselessly, took up a paper and sat down.  In the hall room the old maid held her two plugs of cotton poised, filled with anxiety.