"Maybe," says I, "but I have my doubts. Anyway, it won't take long to make a test."
And when I'd left her and strolled out to the gate where Babe is pacin' up and down anxious, he demands at once: "Well, did you find out?"
"Uh-huh," says I.
"Was—was it something I did?" he asks trembly.
"Sure it was," says I. "You let her in for an intensive training act that would make the Paris Island marine school grind look like a wand drill. You should have had better sense, too. Why, what she was trying to sop up in six weeks most young ladies give as many years to. Near as I can judge she was making a game play of it, too. But of course she couldn't last out. And it's a wonder she didn't wind up at a nerve sanitarium."
"Honest!" says Babe, beamin' on me and grabbin' my hand. "Is—is that all?"
"Ain't that enough?" says I.
"But that's so easy fixed," says he. "Why, I am bored stiff at these resort places myself. I thought, though, that Lucy was having the time of her young life. What a chump I was not to see! Say, we'll take a fresh start. And next time, believe me, she's going to have just what she wants. That is, if I can persuade her to give me another trial."
It seems he did, for later on he tells me he's bought that cute little stucco cottage over near the country club and that him and Lucy are going to settle down like regular people.
"With a nursery and all?" I asks.