"Ain't she got any friends besides what's here?" says I to Sadie, after we'd got through and gone up front by ourselves to see the moon rise.
"I'm not so sure about even these," says Sadie.
"Then why didn't someone cut in with a come-back?" says I.
"It isn't exactly safe," says she.
"Oh!" says I. "She's that kind, is she? You'd think from her talk that she knew only two sorts of women: them that had been divorced, and them that ought to be."
"I'm afraid that's her specialty," says Sadie.
"Sort of a lady muck-raker, eh?" says I. "Well I hope all she says ain't so. How about it?"
Well, that was the beginnin' of a heart to heart talk that lasted for a good many miles. Somehow Sadie and I'd never had a real quiet chance like that before, and it came out that we had a lot to say to each other. I don't know how it was, but the rest of 'em seemed to let us alone. Some was back under the awnin' and others was down stairs, playin' whist. There was singin' too, but we couldn't make out just who was doin' it, and didn't care a whole lot.
Anyway, it was the bulliest ride I ever had. The moon come up over Long Island, as big as a bill board and as yellow as a chorus girl's hair; the air was kind of soft and warm, like you gets it in the front room of a Turkish bath place; and there wa'n't anything on either side nearer'n the shore lights, way off in the dark. It wa'n't any time for thinkin' hard of anyone, so we agrees that the lady muck-raker must have been born with a bad taste in her mouth and can't help it, lettin' her slide at that.
I forgot what it was we did talk about. It was each other mostly, I guess. You can do that when you've known anyone as long as we had; and it's a comfort, once in a while.