"Goodness, no!" gasps J. Meredith. "Who suggested that?"
"Why, it has all the earmarks of one," says I. "What else would you be doin', out playin' the cornet by moonlight on the dock, if you wa'n't serenadin' someone?"
"But I wasn't, truly," he protests. "It—it was the champagne, you know."
"Eh?" says I. "You don't mean to say you got stewed? Not on a couple of glasses!"
"Well, not exactly," says he. "But I can't take wine. I hardly ever do. It—it goes to my head always. And tonight—well, I couldn't decline. You saw. Then afterward—oh, I felt so buoyant, so full of life, that I couldn't go to sleep. I simply had to do something to let off steam. I wanted to play the cornet. So I came out here, as far away from anyone as I could get."
"Too thin, Merry," says I. "That might pass with me; but with strangers you'd get the laugh."
"But it's true," he goes on. "And I didn't dream anyone could hear me from here."
"Why, you boob," says I, "they could hear you a mile off!"
"Really?" says he. "But you don't suppose Vio—I mean, the Misses Hibbs could hear, do you?"
"Unless it's their habit to putty up their ears at night," says I.