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The Double Life of Ina Claire
SI
mobile and told the man to drive to Wheaton. And there we were united in holy bonds, with the chauffeur and a stranger in blue overalls as the only witnesses.
“It was a jazz marriage,” she sighed pleasantly. “When we got to the apartment there were eight full milk bottles on the back porch — Jimmie hadn’t been ‘home’ for a week — and dust all over the place as thick as plush. And I had always pictured myself getting married with all my friends enviously looking on as I walked up the aisle in white satin and pearls!
“That apartment, believe me, was no place for white satin. Everything was dusty ; and everything we touched broke — plates broke, chairs broke, even the bed broke. And the neighbors were scandalized.
“It was the tragedy of our comical honeymoon,” she amusedly wailed, “that the only people we wanted to believe us married — our nice, quiet, middle-class neighbors of this most respectable Pomander Walk — wouldn’t, couldn’t believe that we were married. They sneaked up the back stairs and read the lettering on my trunks — not ‘Mrs. J. Whittaker,’ but ‘Miss I. Claire.’ And they saw my underthings hanging on the line and knew that nothing so gay could belong to a decent married woman.”
“Didn’t you,” I broke in, “lose a maid because she wouldn’t work for a lady who wore such lascivious lingerie?”
“We lost one maid that way. But usually we lost the lingerie, too. The colored maids would run South with it and never come back. We were habitually maidless — and the dishes piled neck high. One day — it was the third day — I got hungry and had to wash a dish. I am not,” Ina didn’t have to tell me, “what is called a good housekeeper. But, just the same, when Jimmie said his mother was coming to