"No, no!" says he, gaspy.
"Huh!" says I. "Then Violet gets the decision." And I holds him off by main strength while I calls out, "Why, ain't you on yet? It was for Violet, of course."
"Ah-h-h-h! Thank you. Good night," comes a voice—no chorus this time: just one—and the window is shut.
"There you are, Merry," says I. "It's all over. You're as good as booked for life."
He was game about it, though, Merry was. He squares it with Aunty before goin' to bed, and right after breakfast next mornin' he marches over to the Hibbses real business-like. Half an hour later I saw him strollin' out on the wharf with one of the big sisters, and I knew it must be Violet. It was his busy day; so I says nothin' to anybody, but fades.
And you should have seen the jaunty, beamin' J. Meredith that swings into the Corrugated Monday mornin'. He stops at the gate to give me a fraternal grip.
"It's all right, Torchy," says he. "She—she'll have me—Violet, you know. And we are to live abroad. We sail in less than a month."
"But what about Pansy?" says I.
"Oh, she's coming with us, of course," says he. "Really, they're both charming girls."
"Huh!" says I. "That's where you were when I found you. You're past that point, remember."