Julia said something. Again this word was in their own language and again it was a word of command. But emotion had come into her voice—joy; it thrilled through the air like a magic fluid. The women sank slowly to earth. In another instant the two forces were in each other’s arms.
“Billy,” Julia said, as hand in hand they struck into one of the paths that led to the jungle, “will you marry me?”
Billy did not answer. He only looked at her.
“When?” he said finally. “To-morrow?”
“To-day,” Julia said.
Sunset on Angel Island.
The Honeymoon House thrilled with excitement. At intervals figures crowded to the narrow door; at intervals faces crowded in the narrow window. Sometimes it was Lulu, swollen and purple and broken with weeping. Sometimes it was Chiquita, pale and blurred and sagging with tears. Often it was Peachy, whose look, white and sodden, steadily searched the distance. Below on the sand, Clara, shriveled, pinched, bent over, her hands writhing in and out of each other’s clasp, paced back and forth, her eye moving always on the path. Suddenly she stopped and listened. There came first a faint disturbance of the air, then confusion, then the pounding of feet. Angela, white-faced, frightened, appeared, flying above the trail. “I found him,” she called. Behind came Billy, running. He flashed past Clara.
“How is she?” he panted.
“Alive,” Clara said briefly.
He flew up the steps. Clara followed. Angela dropped to the sand and Jay there, her little head in the crook of her elbow, sobbing.