“But I say, old man,” began Davidson presently, “it’s all right for a joke, but my word! it was an awfully big one, and an awfully risky one, too,—your stealing your own yacht from me! I didn’t think it of you. You not only broke up my boat party—you see, Sally was going on down with us from Natchez—Miss Emory said she’d be glad to have her come, and of course she and Mrs. Daniver made it proper, all right—I say, you not only busted that all up, but by not sending a fellow the least word of what you were going to do, you got those silly newspapers crazy, from New Orleans to New York—why, you’re famous, that is, notorious! But so is Miss Emory, that’s the worst of it. I don’t just fancy she’ll just fancy some of those pictures, or some of those stories. Least you can do now is to marry Helena and the old girl, too, right off!”
“In part, that is good advice,” said I. “I wish I could wear your clothes, Cal—but I remember now that Edouard and I can wear the same clothes, and have, many a time.”
“But I say, don’t be so hoggish. There’s other people in the world beside you—you’d never have thought of making that river cruise, now would you?”
“No.”
“Nor you couldn’t have got Helena aboard the boat if you had, now could you?”
“No.”
“Let alone the old girl, her revered aunt!” He dug another thumb into his own pink striped waistcoat. “She loves you a lot, I am not of the impression!”
“No, I think she rather favored you!” I replied gravely.
“No chance! And I say, isn’t Sally a humdinger? Just the sort for me—something doing every minute. And a fellow can always tell just what she’s thinkin’——”
“I’m not right sure, Cal, whether that’s safe to say of any woman,” said I. “A ship on the sea, or a serpent on a rock has—to use your own quaint manner of speech, my friend—so to speak, nothing on the way of a maid with a man. But go on. I do congratulate you. Do you know, old man, I almost thought, once—a good while ago—that you were just a little—that is—épris of Helena your own self?”