“Thanks,” Mason called. “Hey, Paul, tell your man to take Ms case to Rodney Cuff. Good-by! I’ll send you a card from Waikiki!”
The big engines throbbed into vibrations as the ship gathered speed. Drake yelled something which was unintelligible. The dock with its human fringe of waving figures slipped astern.
Mason turned to Della Street. “How’s that,” he asked, “for keeping a promise?”
Her face flushed, her eyes starry, she looked up at him, the fresh wind from the harbor blowing her hair about her flushed cheeks.
“Swell,” she admitted.
“Now,” he said, “we are confronted with the problem that all your baggage is initialed ‘D.M’ What are we going to do about that?”
“Can’t we have the initials erased?” she asked.
“Not very well,” Mason said, his eyes twinkling. “They’re stamped into the leather. I’ll tell you what you could do, though.”
“What?” she asked.
“If,” he said, “you became Mrs. Mason, the initials would be perfectly all right. They would then stand for ‘Della Mason’ instead of ‘Diana Morgan.’ ”