"Nothing of the kind; you'll walk," he said sternly, and led her toward the steps.
"Jerry, they'll send you home if you don't propose to Althea pretty soon. Then we can go together," said the imp, as she left him.
When he went back to Althea she rose, and he saw how angry she was.
"How can you let that creature make you so ridiculous, Jerry?"
"I'm sorry she annoys you. She is a spoiled, neglected kid, but there's no harm in her."
"She's a disgusting little beast, and I think it is a perfect outrage that the Bryces have shut us up on a ship with her. I shall land the first minute possible, and go home. I don't intend that a miss in her teens shall insult me as she does the rest of you."
She went to her stateroom in high dudgeon, and from that moment Jerry was like a man in a nightmare. When he thought he was on solid land, he stepped off precipices. When he knew he was walking properly, he found himself skimming the earth two feet above terra firma.
When they finally put in at Palm Beach he improvised: a telegram calling him north at once. It was now a case of marry Althea or run, so, like "Georgie, Porgie, Puddin', Pie," he made a hasty exit.
It was with a feeling of pleasant relaxation that he took the night train north. He went to bed early, and slept like an escaped prisoner. When the porter went through the car calling: "Telegram for Mr. Jerome Paxton," he came to, and sat up as if he had been struck by a mallet. He put his head out and called for the yellow envelope. Half awake, he read:
"Is Isabelle with you?—Wallace Bryce."