“Then don’t talk to me about my goodness in taking you.”
“But it is good of you.”
“I don’t think Freddy and Frances think so.”
“Oh, Champney! Tell me, how did you find out their foolishness?”
“That is a secret,” chuckled Champney, “that goes with me to the grave.”
⁂
Nor was it any better for Cupid the next day at the steamer. The evil genius of the little god, in the shape of Potter, persisted in following Frances about, and not a moment did she or Freddy find to swear constancy or anything else to each other. Only a hand squeeze, while the whistle was blowing “all ashore,” did they get to feed their hearts upon during the separation.
Freddy went home, and, going to his room, flung himself on his bed, and moaned, and bit the pillow, and felt he was feeling great thoughts, and thought he was having great feelings.
And the little lady?
“No,” she declared, “I don’t want to walk with you; I don’t want a steamer chair; I don’t want anything; I only want to be left al-o-o-o-o-ne,” and—running to her stateroom, she flung herself upon the lounge and wept over her unhappiness. “Oh, Freddy, Freddy,” she sobbed, “only be true to me, that’s all I ask.”