Page:To-morrow Morning (1927).pdf/191

 little unopened pots of jam. A wardrobe trunk frothed with beaded chiffon. The porthole curtains were drawn, but day cut through them with two knives of light. A staring whiskered griffon lay on top of the bed, a Pomeranian had crept under the covers and broke into needle-sharp barks as Evelyn came in.

"Hello, sweet thing! Hush, Puff! hush, darling! Muvver can't hear one fing. Well, so we land to-morrow morning!"

"It's been a wonderful trip."

"I'll say it has—for you! With the Irving fellow and Durand running around in circles. What would Ralph say?"

"What should he say? My affairs are none of Ralph's business."

"Oho! Your mother says he's coming over soon, that he's taken a palazzo in Venice. Drop that powder puff, Whisky! Take it away from him, Evelyn. Bad boy! Yes'a was, a bad boy! Muvver 'pank!"

Mrs. Prather didn't know she was engaged. No one knew but her mother, who wept about it at first, and later, more restfully, refused to take it seriously.

It had been a wonderful trip. Such nice people, and the thought of Joe's love for her a secret treasure. She went out on deck, passing Harry Fisher, who lay with his cap pulled over his closed eyes, rather green, and with a tray with a little tea awash in a cup and an untouched half of grapefruit beside him. She sat down in Mrs. Prather's chair, nestling into her soft light rug