"Weldon, for a man who has been off his head for a month, you do have singularly wise ideas. But do you suppose she'd go?"
"Which?"
"Miss Mellen, of course. It's a question of ages. Young Mahomet is easier to move than the everlasting hills."
"Meaning your mother? She would thank you." "She will thank me, when she sees Alice," Carew responded hopefully. "But, honor bright, do you suppose Miss Mellen would go back with me?"
"I thought she promised."
"Yes, but now," Carew persisted, with the eagerness of a boy. "Right off, next month."
"There's only one way to tell; ask her," Weldon answered. "If she is the girl I think she is, she will say yes."
"You do like her; don't you, Weldon?" The eagerness was still in his tone.
"Intensely," Weldon replied quietly. "I have seen few women I have liked as well."
"What larks we'll be having, this time next year, talking it all over together," Carew said, in a sudden, thoughtful burst of prophecy. "By the time we get home, we shall forget the blood and the dog-biscuit, and only remember the skittles and beer. If only—"