He wanted to sit right down with her on the edge of the wharf and talk.
“Do you realize it’s been the better part of a year since Honolulu?”
“I _know_, my dear man, but we simply _can’t_ sit down here in all this
‘hubbub’!”
“There’s a carriage!” he cried; and he beckoned the driver wildly.
She laughed—a little humorous, cordial, helpless laugh—and he gave her
his hand.
She entered the carriage and he climbed in after her with the spring and
zest of a stripling. It made him feel immensely young to be with Flora
again. He told her so, and she didn’t mind anything he said, because she
was feeling the very same sensations herself. The impresario’s personal
hand baggage was bundled in with them, and they were off. The driver
wanted to know where to, but they said they didn’t care, so he clucked to
the horse and set out to circle the island. Such opulent indefiniteness
didn’t often befall.
It was an immortal ride. They talked themselves into almost a state of
eager hoarseness; and if one happened to break in while the other was
still speaking, the latter wouldn’t stop, but would keep right on till
the sentence was finished—never stridently, yet with a vigour which
refused to be downed. And then, sometimes, they sat quite silent for a
little while; but somehow these pauses were just as thrilling as the talk
itself.
The simplicity of what had at length developed into a real if somewhat
unusual courtship was rather wonderful. There was, underneath everything,
just a fine mutual recognition of compatibility. Flora wouldn’t have
known how to be exactly coy, even had she desired. So there was nothing
quite of suspense in their mellowing friendship. Both were so essentially
open and enthusiastic. She appreciated him and he appreciated her. It had
come about gradually and very simply, and they just frankly recognized
it. They _deserved_ each other—yes, that was it! And that was what kept
humour so warmly alive. She deserved him and he deserved her.
Flora told him, as they rode along, all the things she had been doing
since her last letter. There was a new apartment, of course, in San
Francisco—“quite a little snug one, this time,” she said, “and not nearly
so difficult to _furnish_, though it’s a _charming_ little place, and I’m
trying out some brand new ‘colour schemes’ in it!”
And he told her all about the baby, and what an unusually smart baby it
was—really all but walking and talking, one would swear, to hear the
excited man rave! Flora laughed till there were tears in her eyes; and
she said she “_certainly_ must _see_ the remarkable baby, which you say
has become your ‘mascot’, though I don’t _really_ see how a baby quite so
_young_ could have teeth almost ready to break _through_!”
Then all at once it began to dawn on them that they didn’t know in the
least where they were driving to. They looked at each other and laughed.
And then they grew momentarily rather solemn over a freely acknowledged
state of famishment. But scarcely had the wheels revolved a score of
times when they beheld—it was just like a page out of some fairy tale!—a
delightful house all overrun with crimson ramblers, and out near the road
a neat sign which said: