"Miriam, you—"
"Good-by!"
Over a luncheon that lay cold and unrelished between them Irving Shapiro leaned to Miriam Binswanger, his voice competing with the five-piece orchestra and noonday blather of the Oriental Café.
"I just can't get it in my head, somehow, Miriam, that to-morrow this time you'll be out on the sea."
"Me neither."
"I just never had two weeks fly like these since we got acquainted."
"Me—me neither."
Music like great laughter rose over the slip-up in her voice.
"You going to write to me, Miriam?"
"Yes, Irving."