"Our first," remarked Bill, with a wholly wicked grin. And I felt as if we had slipped back several months, to a time when enmity was the only possible thing between us, and our weeks of pleasant comradeship were the shadow of a dream.
There must be, I thought, a very real antagonism for one another in our natures: for otherwise, so deep and unspoken a breach could not have been made in ten minutes of foolish anger.
"Wright says," Bill continued, "that he hesitates to intrude upon our 'happy honeymoon hours.' A pretty alliteration. It is not necessary, I hope, to inform him of his mistake."
"He may have eyes—" I suggested.
"Being a poet," he objected, "he is probably myopic."
I ignored this.
"I must find him some pretty girls to play with," I said idly.
"Mercedes," said Bill, "might fit the case."
I was conscious of a sudden flare of anger.
"Bobby Willard's little sister," I said, "seems more Mr. Penny's type. She is very gentle and lovely."