Then his lips met hers, full.
Five minutes later Satan, making his coffee over the Primus stove of the Haliotis, heard a struggling sound, mixed with stifled laughter, and Ratcliffe appeared at the cabin door. He was dragging Jude in; she was half-resisting, and her face was hid in the crook of her arm.
“Satan,” said Ratcliffe, “I’m going to marry Jude.”
“God help you!” said Satan.
CHAPTER XXXVI
THE WEDDING PRESENT
“I’m going to marry Jude!”
The fantastic fact embodied in those words appeared to him folly only next day at one o’clock, with the sky to northward breathing hot on Havana Harbor like the mouth of a blue oven, flags fluttering to the wind, the drum and fife band of an American training ship coming over the water, and the Dryad being towed to her moorings half a mile shoreward.
The blushing bride-to-be of last night, hiding her nose on Ratcliffe’s shoulder, as they sat together on the couch before Satan, while he taunted her with the fact that now she’d have to get into skirts, had turned back into Jude.