"But--I've you. Where
were you thinking of going now?"
His eyes went to the door behind which Sir William was, presumably,
still praising him, and his head jerked resolutely. "Playing it out,"
he said. "I've got to vanish good, and sure after that. I'll play it
out, by God. I was a hero once, I'll be a hero still." His foot
crunched broken glass as he moved. "I'm going to America, my girl. It's
dry."
Perhaps she distrusted the absolute dryness of America, and perhaps
that had nothing to do with Dolly. She examined her hand minutely.
"Going to the Isle of Man on a rough day, I wasn't a bit ill," she said
casually. "I'm a good sailor."
"You put it across Sir William," he said. "You're a blinkin' marvel."
"No," she said, "but a thing that's worth doing is worth doing well.
I'm not a marvel, but I might be the metal polish in those gold letters
of yours if you think it worth while."
His trampish squalor seemed to him suddenly appalling. "There, don't do
that," he protested--her arm had found its way into his. "My sleeve's
dirty."
"Idiot!" said Dolly Wainwright, drawing him to the door.
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