he met her in Paris. Was the de Cordoba money to come between them again now—when he would soon have so much of his own? Why couldn't she have waited? His lips became a thin, firm line.
"There is one thing a healthy American man can't do, Carmelita," he said slowly, "and that is, live on his wife's money."
Carmelita was vexed, exasperated as she saw her plans endangered, and her voice echoed this. "Oh, don't let your silly old pride spoil everything, Dudley. We can be so happy down here together and you can pay me back the amount of the rent later as far as that goes."
He looked at her with a whimsical smile. She was so like a petulant child who thinks the world will come to an end if one of her pet projects goes wrong. He put his arm affectionately around her. "I know it's been hard for you the past year, dearest," he said, "and you've been a very good sport about it."
"Well, I'm afraid I couldn't go on being a sport, Dudley, if I had to go back to that stuffy old apartment in this scorching weather when I have a perfectly gorgeous and cool home here that I've signed the papers for and couldn't get out of taking if I wanted to." Carmelita had ceased arguing. She was simply going to have her way or—
