“There!” she said, composedly. Her cheek was cool and unflushed, her eyes serene and smiling. “Now you may go, Mr. Percival. Good luck! Bring back good news to us. I dreamed last night that we were marooned, that we would have to stay here for ever.”
“All of us?” he asked, a trifle thickly.
“Certainly,” she replied, after the moment required for comprehension. Her eyes were suddenly cold and uncompromising.
“If I never come back,” he began, somewhat dashed, “I'd like you to remember always, Miss Clinton, that I—well, that I am the most grateful dog alive. You've been corking.”
“But it isn't possible you won't come back,” she cried, and he was happy to see a flicker of alarm in her eyes. “What—what could happen to you? It isn't—”
“Oh, all sorts of things,” he broke in, much in the same spirit as that which dominates the boy who wishes he could die in order to punish his parents for correcting him.
“Are—are you really in earnest?”
“Would you care—very much?”
She hesitated. “Haven't I wished you good luck, Mr. Percival?”
“Would you mind answering my question?”