It had been a brief, matter-of-fact ceremony. John Recklow, of the Secret Service, was there; also Benton and Selden of the same service.
The bride’s lips were unresponsive; cold as the touch of the groom’s unsteady hand.
She looked down at her new ring in a blank sort of way, gave her hand listlessly to Recklow and to the others in turn, whispered a timidly comprehensive “Thank you,” and walked away beside Cleves as though dazed.
There was a taxicab waiting. Tressa entered. Recklow came out and spoke to Cleves in a low voice.
“Don’t worry,” replied Cleves dryly. “That’s why I married her.”
“Where are you going now?” inquired Recklow.
“Back to my apartment.”
“Why don’t you take her away for a month?”
Cleves flushed with annoyance: “This is no occasion for a wedding trip. You understand that, Recklow.”
“I understand. But we ought to give her a breathing space. She’s had nothing but trouble. She’s worn out.”