"It was very nice of you to defend me, Jimmie—er—James."
Wellington almost dislocated several joints in rising quickly and whirling round at the cordiality of her tone. But his smile vanished at her last word. He protested, feebly: "James sounds so like a—a butler. Can't you call me Little Jimmie again?"
Mrs. Wellington smiled indulgently: "Well, since it's the last time. Good-bye, Little Jimmie." And she put out her hand. He seized it hungrily and clung to it: "Good-bye?—aren't you getting off at Reno?"
"Yes, but——"
"So am I—Lucretia."
"But we can't afford to be seen together."
Still holding her hand, he temporized: "We've got to stay married for six months at least—while we establish a residence. Couldn't we—er—couldn't we establish a residence—er—together?"
Mrs. Wellington's eyes grew a little sad, as she answered: "It would be too lonesome waiting for you to roll home."
Jimmie stared at her. He felt the regret in her voice and took strange courage from it. He hauled from his pocket his huge flask, and said quickly: "Well, if you're jealous of this, I'll promise to cork it up forever."
She shook her head skeptically: "You couldn't."