"Plenty; we are going to the 5-10-20 cent store."
"I thought those were the prices of melodrama on the East Side."
"Wait. You may find the event even tragic, if I want too many seductive articles," she cautioned him. "But let us not talk of mere things—aren't you going to tell me about your day?"
"I am. But it was a day like any other workingman's, I suppose; nothing happened."
"Did you want anything to happen? I imagined——"
"All I want," said Tony Adriance fervently, "is to be left alone, with you."
CHAPTER IX
The Luck in the House.
Nothing did happen. None of the traditionary usual experiences overtook the two in the little red house, as November ran out and December stormed in like a lusty viking from northern seas, attended by tremendous winds and early snow.
In the first place, the marriage of Anthony Adriance, Junior, somehow escaped the sensational journals, as a pleasing theme. There were no headlines announcing: "Son of a millionaire weds a nursemaid." No reporters discovered the house on the Palisades, to photograph its diminutive Gothic front for Sunday specials. Adriance had written a letter of explanation, so far as explanation might be, to his father. That was on the morning of his marriage, and as he had given no address, naturally he had received no answer. There were no reproaches and no pursuit.