"Old! You and I? We'll cross that bridge when we come to it, Ivy Bower."
"Right Bower," says she, "you don't understand----"
"How not understand?"
"You don't understand that Right Bower and Ivy Bower aren't the only
people on this island."
She didn't turn a fiery red and bolt--the way young wives do in stories.
She looked at me with steady, brave, considering eyes.
"Don't worry, dear," she says after a time; "everything will be all
right. I know it will."
"I know it too." I lied.
Know it? I was cold with fright.
"Don't be afraid," said she. "And--and meanwhile there's dinner to be
got ready--and you can have a go at your firesticks."
It was my ambition to get fire by friction. Now and then I got the
sticks to smoke and I hoped that practice would give me the little extra
speed and cunning that makes for flame. I'd always been pretty good at
games, if a little slow to learn.