Smitty and Foster were looking at him with a silent reproof. Gwyn's eyes were on the floor. She set her cup aside, untouched.
Morrow returned their look without expression. Something danced and giggled and rolled, hugging its sides with laughter, inside him, but he kept it off his face.
"Gwyn!" he said. His tone was sharp, insistent.
She stood up uncertainly. "I'd—I'd better be getting home, too," she said.
"Right." He nodded. "We've got to get off before sunrise catches us—we'll be safe over the Pennsylvania brush country."
"All right." She moved toward him, toward the bulk-head door at his back.
He reached out and touched her shoulder, stopping her before him. "When we get back, I'll write you," he said gruffly. "Meanwhile, you can be straightening out your affairs here, and—in a couple of weeks or so—"
She looked at him, then. Eyes wide open and shining, lips parted.
"Well, don't just stand there!" Smitty bellowed indignantly. "Go on and kiss her!"