"I wish I were," Max said, and he did actually wish it.
"Will you write and tell me what happens to you?" she rather timidly asked.
"I should like to. It's good of you to care."
"It's not good, but I do care. How could I help it, after all you've done for me?"
"You'll never know what it was to me to have the chance. And will you write what your father's verdict is? If you should be going back, perhaps I——"
"Oh, I shall not be going back!" the girl cried, with sharp decision. "But I'll write. And I shall never forget. If men disappoint me—though I hope, oh, so much, they will not—I shall remember one loyal friend I have made. After last night and to-day, we couldn't be less than friends, could we? even though we never hear from each other again."
"Thank you for saying that. I feel it, too, more than you can," Max assured her. "But since we're to be friends, will you let me help you all I can, and see you again on shore, before we go our separate ways? Let me find out about your train, and take you to it, and so on; and perhaps you'll dine with me, if there's time before you start."
"How good you are!" She gave him one of those soft, sweet glances, which, unlike Billie Brookton's lovely looks, were prompted by no conscious desire to charm. "But you will be so busy with your own affairs!"
"Not too busy for that. I don't suppose it will be very difficult to get at what I've come for. I shall soon know—one way or the other. I may have to go on somewhere else, but one day won't matter. I can give myself a little indulgence, if it's for the last time."
So they settled it. Max was to be "St. George" and keep off dragons for a few hours more.