"Not yet; but on the way. Announcements are out in New York; and I bear, darling, congratulations."
Telegrams, he now noticed, lay tossed on her dresser. Lida laughed.
"Mamma evidently employed a poet. We have refreshed the jaded world, sweetheart, with a breath of youth's romance, running off in old-fashioned manner because we couldn't be kept apart a second longer.
"The subway, darling, sighs and languishes over your picture. I hope they're printing the one they took when you were pinched, because they certainly pass out the most poisonous poses of me. . . . Are we sitting down?"
He dropped upon a chair, she flicked out the light and was upon his knees, her warm, soft, restless fingers upon his cheek, smoothing his hair, touching his temples, at his cheek again.
"How do we get it, husband," she whispered.
"Get what?"
"More. Oh God, I want it—more, more."
"We'll get it, Lida," he said, and her lips were upon his, leaving to ask:
"You and I, Jay?"
"Why not?"
"You don't want it."
She was up; she was out of his arms, or trying to free herself, but he held her. "Let me go," she fought with his hands. "You don't love me as I love you."
"You don't love me, Lida."
"But I want to. You don't even want to."
She was away from him and at the window. She flung
