"I was going to make a trip south this month," he said, "on my way home from here. Suppose we get married again by somebody or other, and start right off. You'd like that, wouldn't you—going South?"
"Yes," said Lulu only.
"It's July," said Ina, with her sense of fitness, but no one heard.
It was arranged that their trunks should follow them—Ina would see to that, though she was scandalised that they were not first to return to Warbleton for the blessing of Mrs. Bett.
"Mamma won't mind," said Lulu. "Mamma can't stand a fuss any more."
They left the table. The men and women still sitting at the other tables saw nothing unusual about these four, indifferently dressed, indifferently conditioned. The hotel orchestra, playing ragtime in deafening concord, made Lulu's wedding march.
It was still early next day—a hot Sunday—when Ina and Dwight reached home. Mrs. Bett was standing on the porch.
"Where's Lulie?" asked Mrs. Bett.
They told.