She looked straight back into my eyes.
"I wish my father could," she said.
"Look here," I said indignantly. "Your father has been four months abroad while I have been in Brooklyn! Isn't it only fair and square to let me travel this afternoon?" She looked at me reluctantly.
"Yes," she agreed. "I suppose it is."
"Come along," I urged, and off we went. While our boat drifted idly that long, lazy afternoon, we went careering all over the world and I kept doggedly by her side. Every now and then I would make her stop while we had a good look at each other, exploring deep into the old questions, "What are you and what do you want?"
"You can't run a motorboat all your life," I reminded her. "What are you going to tackle next?"
"Our living-room," she answered. "I'm going to have it done over next month."
That took us into house furnishings, and I gave her ideas by the score. I had never thought about this before, but now I thought hard and eagerly—until she brought me up with a jerk, by pityingly murmuring:
"What perfectly frightful taste you have. It's funny—because you're an artist—you really write quite beautiful things."
"I don't care," I answered grimly. "I can see that living-room——"