"I break my own heart," said Billy gallantly. "I've taken my passage. Say the word, dear girl, and I'll take it for two."
She looked at him in silent trouble. Tears had dimmed her eyes.
"Well, Billy," she said at last, "this is the pleasantest summer I shall ever have."
"Say the word," he admonished her again. "We've got more summers before us."
She smiled at him, and winked away the tears.
"Then come back and spend them here. Electra's going, too,—like a stowaway. You won't let her cross with you, and see at least that she doesn't hold services on board?"
"God forbid!" said Billy. "I'm afraid of her."
"I don't blame you. Billy, I suppose we ought to be saying solemn things to each other, if you're really going."
"Clip ahead, old lady. What do you want to say?"
"I'd like to clear up my accounts a little. I want to get my books in order. I don't intend to die in a fog. Billy, how much of it was real?"