And so they were married. By the Interposition of Authorship they were brought together at the almost equally poor Fulmers’ tiny cottage in the wilds of New Hampshire, where Nat Fulmer painted the Italian cook on the veranda, Grace Fulmer played the fiddle in the dining-room and the five Fulmer kids raised hell simultaneously all over the place. The romance of married love in a cottage swept Susy off her feet.
It was Susy’s idea. Nick would never have thought of it.
“Why not us get married?” she asked quite simply.
Nick was frightened, shied, might have run away, but Susy was on the job with a plan—blue-prints, specifications and working-drawings all complete—especially the last. Susy was a fast worker.
In six words, the gist of it was “checks, nothing but checks, for wedding-presents.” The word “checks”—in the plural—rooted Nicky to the spot. “Lead me to them!” cried every fibre in his body.
The whole thing was simple enough. Susy would guarantee the checks. It should be understood of all that it would be bad form to give Nick and Susy anything but checks, drafts or orders for the payment of money—this their spending-money. For the rest, everyone would lend them their spare houses, palazzos, cottages, villas, apartments, servants, food, wine, cigars and cigarettes—board and lodging free for a year at least. Susy would guarantee that.
And that’s all they had to look out for—one year. After that, why, either of them might make a better match—both of them probably. One little hand-made divorce would do for both....
“I should like just for once to have something of my very own, Nicky dear—something that nobody had lent me, like my fancy-dresses, motors, opera cloaks—or given me, like everything else. And the divorce would be my own, wouldn’t it, Nicky? Mine and yours, just our owny own little divorce.”
“Checks!” murmured Nicky, still in a trance. “Checks!”...