"Oh, the unwritten roast between the lines, little girl. I knew what you thought of me. I knew that I'd never made good."
"How—what do you mean?"
"About the fight—years ago. I was to come back and lick him, you know, and didn't—that's all."
"Are you still thinking of that, Billie? Why, you've won. You are an officer, while he is a sailor."
"Yes, but he licked me at school, and I know you expected me to come back."
"And you did not come back. You never let me hear from you. You might have been dead for years before I could know it."
"Is that it, Florrie?" he exclaimed, in amazement. "Was it me you thought of? I supposed you had grown to despise me."
She did not answer this; but when he again pressed her hand she responded. Then, over the sounds of the storm, he heard a little sob; and, reaching over, drew her face close to his, and kissed her.
"I'm sorry, Florrie, but I didn't know. I've loved you all these years, but I did not know it until a few days ago. And I'll never forget it, Florrie, and I promise you—and myself, too—that I'll still make good, as I promised before."
Poor lover though he was, he had won. She did not answer, but her own small hand reached for his.