Bob and Lorelei had just returned from the theater, much, be it said, against the bridegroom’s wishes.  Bob had been eager to begin the celebration of his marriage in a fitting manner, and it had required the shock of Hammon’s death added to Lorelei’s entreaties to dissuade him from a night of hilarity.  He was flushed with drink, and in consequence more than a little resentful when she insisted upon spending another night in the modest little home.

“Say!  I’m not used to this kind of a place,” he argued.  “I’m not a cave-dweller.  It’s a lovely flat—­for a murder—­but it’s no place to live.  And, besides, it doesn’t look right for me to come to your house, when all the hotels are gasping for my patronage.  I never heard of such a thing.  Makes me feel like a rummy.”

“Don’t be silly,” she told him.  “We acted on impulse; we can’t change everything at a moment’s notice.  I couldn’t bear a hotel just yet.”

“But—­people take trips when they get married.”

“That is different.  Are you—­in a position to take me away to-night?”

With an eloquent gesture Bob turned his trousers pockets wrong side out.  “Not to-night, perhaps, but to-morrow.”

“I can’t quit the show without two weeks’ notice.”

“Two weeks?” He was aghast.  “Two minutes.  Two seconds.  I won’t have you dodging around stage-doors.  To-morrow you’ll breeze in and tell my old friend Regan you’ve quit.  Just say, ’I quit’—­ that’s notice enough.”

“Bergman won’t let me go; it wouldn’t be right to ask him.”

But Bob was insistent.  “It pains me to pull the props out from under the ‘profession’ and leave the drama flat, but matrimony was a successful institution before the Circuit Theater was built, and a husband has rights.  I intend to cure you of the work habit.  You must learn to scorn it.  Look at me.  I’m an example of the unearned increment.  We’ll kiss this dinky flat a fond farewell—­it’s impossible, really—­I refuse to share such a dark secret with you.  To-morrow we leave it for the third and last time.  What d’you say to the sunny side of the Ritz until we decide where we want to travel?”

“You don’t want to leave New York, you know,” she told him, soberly.  “You’re offering to go because you think it’s the proper thing to do and because you don’t know what else to suggest.  But—­ I have to work.”

“Ah!  The family, eh?  We’ll retire ’em and put an end to this child labor.  Now, as for the trip—­we’ve got to do something:  we can’t just—­live.  Where do you have your clothes made?”

Lorelei named several tailors of whom Bob had seldom heard.

“That won’t do,” he said, positively.  “I’ll get a list of the smartest shops from Mrs. Thompson-Bellaire, and I want you to buy enough gowns to last till we reach Paris—­a couple dozen will do—­ then we’ll fit out properly.  I’ll bet you never went shopping—­ really shopping—­did you? and bought everything you saw?”