"And my reason with it!" I cried, drawing her quickly, passionately, up to me.
For a long time a silvery yacht glided across a silvery sea, while in far-off Azuria a throne did totter and fall; but ten thousand loyal subjects smiled in their sleep that night at a strangely happy dream, wherein their little Princess was pressing upon the lips of an unknown beggar the seal of her eternal sovereignty.
When again we thought of the moon it had climbed surprisingly high, making our shadow on the spotless deck seem like a black rug beneath our feet.
"Is it awfully late?" she whispered.
"The moon's still up, sweetheart," I said.
"Is it, dear?" she murmured, adorably sighing her contentment at this evidence that the night must yet be very young, indeed.
And, finally, when moving stealthily like two happy thieves we went down into the cabin, she blew a kiss to the sleeping Thomas Jefferson Davis, then gave both hands impulsively to me, and disappeared into her room. After the door had closed, and I felt she would not open it again, I shook Tommy's shoulder. He blinked at me, mumbling:
"Must have been asleep."
"Must have been," I grinned down at him.
And, when he saw my grin, he sat straight up and grinned back at me—for it is in this way that men sometimes understand each other.