They followed him down the corridor. Matters seemed to be taken from their hands. He stepped out on the dark deck.
"Careful there, better give your wife a hand over those ropes," he cautioned over his shoulder, and they heard the sound of a key in a lock. An oblong of light appeared; he stepped out again to let them pass him. They went in. "There's towels. Everything all right, I guess," he said cheerfully. "Good-night."
Their eyes met for one horrified second. Embarrassment covered them both like a flame. "I—Helen! You don't think—?" They swayed uncertainly in the narrow space between berths and wash-stand. Did the boat jolt so or was it the beating of her heart?
"Paul, did you hear? How could—?"
"I guess I better go now," he said. He fumbled with the door. "Good-night."
"Good-night." She felt suddenly forlorn. But he was not gone. "Helen? It might be true. We might be married!"
She clung to him.
"We can't! We couldn't! Oh, Paul, I love you so!"
"We can be married—we will be—just as soon as we get to Sacramento." His kisses smothered her. "The very first thing in the morning! We'll manage somehow. I'll always love you just as much. Helen, what's the matter? Look at me. Darling!"
"We can't," she gasped. "I'd be spoiling everything for you. Your mother and me and everything on your hands, and you're just getting started. You'd hate me after a while. No, no, no!"