“Yes. But what are you going to say to your parents when you write? They suppose you are on your way to Paris.”
She nodded, looking at him thoughtfully.
“By the way,” he added, “is your trunk on board the Lusitania?”
“Yes.”
“That won’t do! Have you the check for it?”
“Yes, in my purse.”
“We’ve got to get that trunk off the ship,” he said. “There’s only one sure way. I’d better go down now, to the pier. Where’s your steamer ticket?”
“I—I have both tickets and both checks in my bag. He—let me have the p-pleasure of carrying them––” Again her voice broke childishly, but the threatened emotion was strangled and resolutely choked back.
“Give me the tickets and checks,” he said. “I’ll go down to the dock now.”
She drew out the papers, sat holding them for a few moments without relinquishing them. Then she raised her eyes to his, and a bright flush stained her face: 126