With a final gesticulation of vindictive, feminine joy, she succeeded in spilling the whole bottle of ink on the white bed-spread.
"Now you've done it."
"We'll have to clear out early before the chambermaid comes in ... we're only staying here for one night and can't waste our money paying for the damage."
In the morning I bought the papers.
The American had made a scoop. There it was, the story of the whole thing on the front page.
"PENTON BAXTER SUES FOR DIVORCE
NAMES VAGABOND-POET AS CO-RESPONDENT"
There it stood, in big head-lines.
The actuality stared us in the face. We belonged to each other now. It was no longer a summer idyll, but a practical reality.