Mayo turned to find that Yzlita-Audrey was standing slimly outlined against the dusk of a tall French window, as she gazed pensively down at the garden. He burst into a laugh for very joy—a laugh full of the happiness that came flooding over him with the removal of that mantle of sorrow. At the sound, the figure in the window turned, and her quiet mirth came to him as she said, “You funny man! I love your laugh, but I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re laughing at.”
“Not the slightest?”
“Well—perhaps, the very slightest.... But how are you? I suppose you’ve come on your honeymoon, to mock an old maid?” The tone was bantering, but seriousness underlay it.
“Nothing less!—six wives and four hundred hat-boxes!” He joined her at the window, and told the story of his trip. “And you?”
“Oh, Nino was a bad little boy, so I spanked him verbally and sent him away. And that’s that.” She moved her hands in pretty finality, and made a humorous little move. “Besides,” she added, “Italy is so far away.”
“From Cuba?”
“Oh, yes,—Cuba,” as though that were an afterthought.
“And only from Cuba?” he pursued.
“Oh, Italy’s far from all sorts of places.” Then, as he waited, “Silly Mr. Fisherman! And it’s ever so far from—wherever you live now.”
“Elysium, General Delivery,” he supplied.