"My all! My own boy!" She drew him, to hide the quickening trembling of her lips, back behind the shelter of piled baggage.
"Lester darling—I—I didn't sleep a wink all night! I—I'm so nervous, dear. What if a submarine should catch you? What if you meet a French girl and fall in—"
"Now, now, Reddie! Is that what you think of your boy?"
"I don't, dearest; I don't! I keep telling myself I'm a silly—What's three weeks? But when it means separation from the sweetest, dearest—"
"'Sh-h-h, Angel darling! There's the last blast, and your father's angry. See him beckoning! The company's been on board twenty minutes already. Look—there's the sailors lined up at the gangplank—Bleema—"
"Promise me, Lester—"
"I do! I do promise! Anything! Look, girlie: Miss Beautiful will feel hurt the way we left her standing. It isn't nice—our hiding this way."
"I can't bear, dearest, to see you go—"
"Look! See—there's David Feist come down, too. You don't want him to see my girl make a cry baby of herself over a three weeks' trip—"
"You'll write, Lester, and cable every day?"