She gave him another quick glance. “With whom?”
“I mean with Betty Fessenden, of course.”
“O-oh!”
“I’m dreaming now of sailing on and on with her. The other night I dreamed that she put ‘dear’ after my name, and that if we could only sail and sail long enough she might do it again.”
His half-closed lids hid the warmth in his eyes, but his voice shook with the passion he struggled to control. She shrank a little.
“You needn’t,” he said. “Please don’t. You can trust me absolutely. I—I was merely dreaming, you know.”
“I didn’t mean to hurt you, Bob White—dear. Trust you? My presence here shows that I do—you know that.” Her fingers touched his hair so fleetingly that he hardly dared believe she had meant it for a caress.
Presently she relinquished the wheel to him and took his place among the cushions.
He noticed how round her throat was, and how deliciously white. The rose-tipped chin and red mouth held him fascinated, until the glint of bayonets in the eyes warned him to control his glances.
“You’re the most adorable skipper I ever saw,” he declared.