“So am I,” said she. “I've had a very nice time here.”
“Then I won't see you again,” said Orde, still groping for realisation. “I must go to Monrovia to-morrow. But I'll be down to see you off.”
“Do come,” said she.
“It's not to be for good?” he expostulated. “You'll be coming back.”
She threw her hands palm out, with a pretty gesture of ignorance.
“That is in the lap of the gods,” said she.
“Will you write me occasionally?” he begged.
“As to that—” she began—“I'm a very poor correspondent.”
“But won't you write?” he insisted.
“I do not make it a custom to write to young men.”