"There'd be Italy——" Captain Macauley began, but I shrank back.
"Not Italy!" I begged. "I couldn't go to Italy now."
"Why?"
"Because you'd want me to write a lot of sentimental stuff from there—and I'm not sentimental—now."
He smiled.
"Italy is the land of lovers," he whispered, his eyes twinkling over some 1870 recollection. "You must be in love with somebody when you're in Italy—and you can no more hide it than you can hide nettle-rash."
"I don't want to go there," I said stiffly.
"Well, can't you speak?"
"Well, you wouldn't have to!" he answered readily. "This steamer ticket reads from New York to Liverpool."