And after a little while he drew the note from his pocket.
"I had written this when I found yours," he said. And he held it for her while she read it, bending nearer in the dim, rosy light.
After she read it she took it from him gently, folded it, and slipped it into the bosom of her gown.
Neither said anything. One of her hands still remained in his, listlessly at first—then the fingers crisped as his other arm encircled her.
They were both gazing vaguely at the ocean now. Presently they moved slowly toward it through the fragrant dusk. Her hair, loosened a little, brushed his sunburned cheek.
And around them gambolled the wise little dog, no longer apprehensive, but unutterably content with what the God of all good little doggies had so mercifully sent to him in loco parentis.
"That," said the novelist, "is another slice of fact which would never do for fiction. Besides I once read a story somewhere or other about a dog bringing two people together."[192]
"The theme," I observed, "is thousands of years old."
"That's the trouble with all truth," nodded Duane. "It's old as Time itself, and needs a new suit of clothes every time it is exhibited to instruct people."