He laughed. It was the old buoyant, boyish laugh of sheer happiness, and I felt the better for hearing it.
“If you begin to preach, parson, I'll go; I vow I'll have no more sermonizing. Davy,” he cried, “isn't she just the dearest, sweetest, most beautiful person in the world?”
I smiled.
“Where is she?” I asked, temporizing. Nick was not a subtle person, and I was ready to follow him at great length in the praise of Antoinette. “I hope she is not here.”
“We made her go to Les Îles,” said he.
“And you risked your life and stayed here without her?” I said.
“As for risking life, that kind of criticism doesn't come well from you. And as for Antoinette,” he added with a smile, “I expect to see something of her later on.”
“Well,” I answered with a sigh of supreme content, “you have been a fool all your life, and I hope that she will make you sensible.”
“You never could make me so,” said Nick, “and besides, I don't think you've been so damned sensible yourself.”
We were silent again for a space.