"I could see a great deal from our porthole."
"I shouldn't have thought you were the kind of girl to be satisfied with portholes," said Peter, hoping to wake up one of her smiles. Her voice sounded rather tired.
"Beggars mustn't be choosers," was the dry reply.
"But dryads may be," he encouraged her.
"I've left my dryadhood hanging up behind the door." She spoke sharply, almost irritably, it seemed. "I shan't need it in New York."
"Oh, won't you? That's where you're mistaken! There'll be lots of times when you'd rather have it than the grandest opera cloak."
"I shan't need an opera cloak, either."
Peter was still smiling, though less confident of the old friendly understanding which had given them a language of their own with words which would have been nonsense for others.
"We'll see. Anyhow, I shall ask you to go to the very first worth-while opera that comes along. Consider it a formal invitation."
"Very well, I will, and answer it formally. 'Miss