“I suppose you imagine that I owe you something,” proceeded Nick, “and
so I won’t ask you to listen to any remarks on the subject of a habit
you have latterly developed of snickering at inopportune moments. I
will ask you, though, if you don’t mind, to go to Trondhjem and look
up those enamels. I’m afraid Bode may be after them. In the meantime
I think Zephine and I will beat it to the North Cape. I shouldn’t
wonder if we ran around to Archangel and Nova Zembla too. I’m going to
telegraph to England for a yacht. So you can take your time. But you
must be ready for us to pick you up on our way back.”
At first, you know, I thought they had cooked the thing up between
them. But Nick’s air--rather of a horse with the bit in his teeth--and
Zephine’s unmistakable pinkness, and a queer look they at last
exchanged, when Nick finished his speech and offered Zephine his
arm, told me that not until that moment, when two Serene Highnesses,
a baroque Englishman, and I, were staring at them, had those
extraordinary young persons come to the point of undertaking the
delicate negotiations vulgarly known as getting engaged. Zephine,
at any rate, did not refuse Nick’s offered arm. And with a somewhat
less magnificent bow they strolled away, leaving me to deal with the
situation as best I might.
I did take my time. I bagged the enamels, and then I went on a two
months’ walking tour with the Englishman of the pockets.