“I'm so sorry, Tommy,” she murmured.
“Oh, well—” he said. Her horse began to show signs of impatience. It made him ask, hastily, but very seriously: “I'd like to—May I write to you, Marion?”
“Will you, Tommy? Of course you will. Won't you?”
There was not time for flippancy. He said, “Yes.” There were a million things he wished to tell her. He selected the first, “Thank you, Marion.”
“D-don't m-mention it,” she said, reassuringly.
He almost heard a voice crying, “All ashore that's goin' ashore!” It made him say, hurriedly: “Good-by, Marion. You're a brick!”
“It's you who are one,” she said.
He held out his hand. “Good-by!” he said again, and looked straight into her eyes.
She looked away and said: “G-good-by, Tommy! Good luck!”
“Thanks! I'll—I'll write!” And he turned away quickly. This compelled him to relinquish the gauntleted little hand he was gripping so tightly. The steel chain thus having snapped, he walked away and did not look back.