II
He wanted to sit right down with her on the edge of the wharf and talk.
“Do you realize it’s been the better part of a year since Honolulu?”
“I know, my dear man, but we simply can’t sit down here in all this ‘hubbub’!”
“There’s a carriage!” he cried; and he beckoned the driver wildly.
She laughed—a little humorous, cordial, helpless laugh—and he gave her his hand.
She entered the carriage and he climbed in after her with the spring and zest of a stripling. It made him feel immensely young to be with Flora again. He told her so, and she didn’t mind anything he said, because she was feeling the very same sensations herself. The impresario’s personal hand baggage was bundled in with them, and they were off. The driver wanted to know where to, but they said they didn’t care, so he clucked to the horse and set out to circle the island. Such opulent indefiniteness didn’t often befall.
It was an immortal ride. They talked themselves into almost a state of eager hoarseness; and if one happened to break in while the other was still speaking, the latter wouldn’t stop, but would keep right on till the sentence was finished—never stridently, yet with a vigour which refused to be downed. And then, sometimes, they sat quite silent for a little while; but somehow these pauses were just as thrilling as the talk itself.
The simplicity of what had at length developed into a real if somewhat unusual courtship was rather wonderful. There was, underneath everything, just a fine mutual recognition of compatibility. Flora wouldn’t have known how to be exactly coy, even had she desired. So there was nothing quite of suspense in their mellowing friendship. Both were so essentially open and enthusiastic. She appreciated him and he appreciated her. It had come about gradually and very simply, and they just frankly recognized it. They deserved each other—yes, that was it! And that was what kept humour so warmly alive. She deserved him and he deserved her.
Flora told him, as they rode along, all the things she had been doing since her last letter. There was a new apartment, of course, in San Francisco—“quite a little snug one, this time,” she said, “and not nearly so difficult to furnish, though it’s a charming little place, and I’m trying out some brand new ‘colour schemes’ in it!”