“Carley, big women might even cross the bad places of modern life on stepping stones of their dead selves!” he went on, with something of mockery. “Surely a few physical steps are not beyond you.”
“Say, are you mangling Tennyson or just kidding me?” she demanded slangily.
“My love, Flo could cross here with her eyes shut.”
That thrust spurred Carley to action. His words were jest, yet they held a hint of earnest. With her heart at her throat Carley stepped on the first rock, and, poising, she calculated on a running leap from stone to stone. Once launched, she felt she was falling downhill. She swayed, she splashed, she slipped; and clearing the longest leap from the last stone to shore she lost her balance and fell into Glenn’s arms. His kisses drove away both her panic and her resentment.
“By Jove! I didn’t think you’d even attempt it!” he declared, manifestly pleased. “I made sure I’d have to pack you over—in fact, rather liked the idea.”
“I wouldn’t advise you to employ any such means again—to dare me,” she retorted.
“That’s a nifty outdoor suit you’ve on,” he said, admiringly. “I was wondering what you’d wear. I like short outing skirts for women, rather than trousers. The service sort of made the fair sex dippy about pants.”
“It made them dippy about more than that,” she replied. “You and I will never live to see the day that women recover their balance.”
“I agree with you,” replied Glenn.
Carley locked her arm in his. “Honey, I want to have a good time today. Cut out all the other women stuff.... Take me to see your little gray home in the West. Or is it gray?”