Kitty laughed rollickingly. For beneath her furbelows and ribbons and trinkets she was inordinately happy and light of heart. Her letter had come; she was only waiting for the day of sailing; and she was to take back with her the memory of the rarest adventure which ever befell a person, always excepting those of the peripatetic sailor from Bagdad.
"I want to go home," said Merrihew, when her laughter died away in a soft mutter.
"What! leave this beautiful world for the sordid one yonder?"
"Sordid it may be, but it's home. I can speak to and understand every man I meet on the streets there; there are the theaters and the club and the hunting and fishing and all that. Here it's nothing but pictures and concierges and lying cabbies. If I could collect all my friends and plant 'em over here, why, I could stand it. But I'm lonesome. Did you ever try to spread frozen butter on hot biscuits? Well, that's the way I feel."
This metaphor brought tears of merriment to Kitty's eyes. She would have laughed at anything this day.
"Daniel, you are hopeless."
"I admit it."
"How beautiful the cypresses are in the sunshine!" she exclaimed, standing.
He reached out and caught her hand, gently pulling her down to the bench.
"The ten minutes are up," he said.