“Yes, mockers, they sung so sweet, especial in the evenings, you know—and I’m so d——d romantic—always was thataway—and you know, why, a fellow can be romantic on his honeymoon, can’t he?—he can just cut loose then an’ be as big a d—n fool as he likes then—an’ get away with it, what? Say, can’t he?”
—“Yes.”
—“So that’s why I came.”
—“But—honeymoon? Are you going to be married?”
—“Naw! I ain’t goin’ to be married—I am married! Day before yesterday, in New Orleans. And I don’t believe in dandlin’ an’ foolin’ around about a little thing like that. Ain’t you married yet?”
“No. Impossible. No preacher on Côte Blanche Bay or on our boat. I’ve got Aunt Lucinda Daniver along, to take care of the proprieties. If I should leave it to her, I never would be married.”
“Why?”
“She thinks I’m broke.”
“Yes, too bad about that! I wish I could swap bank rolls with you. Why didn’t you tell her the truth—and Helena, too? Why didn’t you tell ’em it was your own yacht? Why didn’t you tell ’em you’re worth a few millions and don’t have to work?”
“I don’t know—maybe I’m like you, Cal, foolish about nightingales and things. But tell me—you never did tell them anything about that Sally M. mine business, did you?”