Since the first week in July when the Deans had arrived at Severn Beach, there to spend a part of the summer, Hal had been trying to decide whether or not he should allow another summer to pass without telling Marjorie of his love for her. On that memorable autumn evening of last year when Constance and Laurie had announced their early approaching marriage Hal had been dejectedly certain that Marjorie had nothing to give him save friendship. He had resolved then never to ask her to marry him unless he should come to believe that she had experienced a change of heart toward him.
Lately, since Marjorie had come to stay at Severn Beach, where the Macys usually spent the summers, Hal had been sorely tempted to break his proud resolution. Constance and Laurie had returned from their winter in Europe and were visiting Hal and Jerry at Cliff House, the apartment hotel in which the Macy family lived. Their perfect happiness made Hal wonder wistfully why it was that Marjorie could not love him even half so fondly as Constance loved Laurie. He had been Marjorie’s faithful cavalier for the same number of years that Laurie had been Constance’s. Now Laurie had won Connie for his wife, while he and Marjorie were still, as she had often said, “just good friends.”
This disheartening thought now flashed through his brain for perhaps the hundredth time that week. The calm friendly glance he forced himself to bend on Marjorie as she finished quoting the verse bore no sign of his disquieting reflections.
“Bully for the Irish!” he exclaimed with deceiving heartiness.
“You’re not a bit under the magic spell of the white moonshine,” she rebuked with a laughing, upward glance at Hal.
“How do you know I’m not?” His tones were teasing, but into his eyes had leaped a sudden purposeful gleam which told a different story. “Moonlight affects different persons in different ways. Wait till we take to the launch. Then I’ll turn moony and sing sentimental songs. I’ll give you a fine imitation of a moonstruck nut. I wouldn’t dare try it on shore. I might be run in for disturbing the peace.”
“Run in for disturbing the peace?” inquired a horrified voice at Marjorie’s elbow. Danny Seabrooke peered apprehensively around Marjorie at Hal. “Ah, I understand.” He grew apologetic. “You weren’t speaking of me. You meant your—well—er—” Danny drew down his freckled face very sorrowfully. “When did it happen, Macy?”
“It hasn’t happened yet, but it will soon,” Hal promised with cool significance.
“I shan’t be here to see it. I’m going to take a walk up the beach with Geraldine.” Danny hastily fell behind a few steps and took Jerry by a plump arm. “Come along,” he urged. “It’s not safe around here.”
“It’s safe enough for me.” Jerry briskly shook off Danny’s detaining hand. “I’m going out in the Oriole. Hurry up, you sentimental strollers,” she called over one shoulder to Constance and Laurie. They had paused for a moment, hand in hand, and were raptly gazing out to sea. “Come out of lovers’ lane and join the crowd.”