CHAPTER XXXVII
Skippy Retires With His Scalp
CAME the last day. End of the summer, of summer's warmth. End of languid siestas on drowsy beaches, end of balmy moonlight nights, moonlight sails, moonlight picnics; end of intimate whispered half laughing, half serious intimacies a deux. To-morrow separation and a man's life to take up again! To-morrow the chill of autumn and the melancholy of drifting leaves. The last partings to take, promises to be solemnly exchanged—heart burnings, bottom dropped out of everything, another milestone to be registered in the scurrying flight of Time!
Mr. Skippy Bedelle and Miss Vivi Balou separated themselves from the unromantic middle-aged crowd around the tennis courts and made their way up the beach to the sheltering swirls of convenient sand dunes. They walked in silence, oppressed by the greatness of their grief, from time to time their shoulders touched in dumb understanding.
"To-morrow!" said Skippy with a gulp in his throat.
"Don't!"
He carried a beach chair, four sofa cushions, two rugs, her work-bag, a box of chocolates and a romance they had dipped into.
"Don't!" repeated Miss Vivi, gazing out from under her pink parasol with stricken eyes at the unending sea.