"In that case, we shall hie us to some genuinely civilized country—Sweden or Cape Comorin—where breach of comradeship is the sole ground for divorce—"
Indignant voices from the staircase penetrated their mutual absorption.
"Where in the world can they be!"
"So this is your radical hospitality!"
"Robert—latest method?—proposing by telepathy—imperfect communications—vast silences—heavenly harmony—"
"Pooh! Janet's no fool—nothing like a bee line—marriage license bureau—bird in the bush, you know—"
Blushing and looking like culprits, they climbed the stairs and braved the mock indignation meeting which their three friends were holding in the hall between flats 13 and 15. (Robert had rented both flats, as a surprise for Janet.)
Lydia went straight to Janet and enfolded her in a copious embrace, whilst Charlotte stood by, ready for a cordial handshake. Mark Pryor, stupefied at this exhibition of feminine perspicacity, could only stare at Robert and mutter:
"What! Already?"
"Was ever woman in this humor won!" drawled Lydia, as she led the way into Number Thirteen, Kelly's old flat. "I must say, Janet, I'm not much impressed with Robert's 1921 revision of the Lord of Burleigh stunt. Like all modern versions of fine old idylls, it's gingerbread without the ginger. Give me the village painter who leads his sweetheart to a palace! There's the thrill that comes but once in a lifetime. But fancy a millionaire taking his bride to a Kips Bay model tenement—and Number Thirteen at that!"