glorious night, and a maid who had been, in his secret thoughts, his dream of the unattainable!
“Will you wait for me—wait till I can make something of myself?” he demanded.
“You are yourself—right now—that's enough!”
“But the future. I must—”
“Love me—love me now—that's all we need to ask. The future will take care of itself when the time comes! Haven't you read about the great loves? How they just forgot the whole petty world? What has love to do with business and money and bargains? Love in its place—business in its place! And our love will be our secret until—”
He pardoned her indefiniteness, for when she paused and hesitated she pressed her lips to his, and that assurance was enough for him.
“Yes—oh yes—Miss Alma!” called a man's voice in the singsong of eager summons.
“It's Arthur,” she said, with snap of impatience in her voice. “Why won't people let me alone?”
He released her, and she stood at arm's-length, her hands against his breast. “I have thought—It seemed to me,” he stammered, “that he—Forgive me, but I have loved you so! I couldn't bear to think—think that he—”
“You thought I cared for him!” she chided. “That's only the man my father has picked out for me! Why, I wouldn't even allow my father to select a yachting-cap for me, much less a husband. I'll tell him so when the time comes!”
Mayo's brows wrinkled in spite of himself. The morrow seemed to play small part in the calculations of this maid.
“Money—that's all there is to Arthur Beveridge. My father has enough money for all of us. And if he is stingy with us—oh, it's easy enough to earn money, isn't it? All men can earn money.”
Captain Mayo, sailor, was not sure of his course in financial waters and did not reply.
“Miss Alma! I say! Oh, where are you?”
“Even that silly, little, dried-up man,” she jeered, with a duck of her head in the
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