“By George!” he exclaimed, “I had something to show you. I'm afraid I've lost it. Oh, no I here it is.”
He extracted from his trousers pocket the water soaked lump that had been the New York newspaper. The page containing the sensational announcement of the engagement in high life was quite undecipherable. Being on the outside of the folded paper, it had rubbed to a pulpy blur. However, he told her about it, and she agreed that his judgment of the character of the future Baroness Hardacre had been absolutely correct.
“You were very wise,” she said sagely.
“Not so wise as I've become since,” he asserted with decision. Then he added, with a rather rueful smile, “I'm afraid, dear, people won't say as much for you, when they know.”
“I'm satisfied.”
“You may have to wait all those years—and years—you spoke of.”
“I will.”
But she did not have to. For, at that moment, the miracle of wisdom beside her sat up and pointed to the wet newspaper lying on the sand at her feet.
“Has my happiness affected my wits?” he demanded. “Or does salt water bring on delusions? Aren't those my initials?”
He was pointing to a paragraph in the “Personals” column of the New York paper. This, being on one of the inner pages, had remained comparatively dry and could be read. The particular “Personal” to which he pointed was this: