Part 22 (1/2)
”I'm not going to cry,” she said, striving to smile. ”If I must go, I will go. I--I didn't mean to say all this--but--but I've been so--so discouraged;--and you were not very cross with me--”
Smitten with remorse, I picked up her hand and fell to patting it violently, trying to think of something to say. The exercise did not appear to stimulate my wits.
”Then--then I'm to go with you?” she asked.
”I will see,” I said, weakly, ”but I fear there's trouble ahead for this expedition.”
”I fear there is,” she agreed, in a cheerful voice. ”You have a rifle and a cage in your luggage. Are you going to trap Indians and have me report their language?”
”No, I'm not going to trap Indians,” I said, sharply. ”They may trap us--but that's a detail. What I want to say to you is this: Professor Farrago detests unmarried women, and I forgot it when I engaged you.”
”Oh, is that all?” she asked, laughing.
”Not all, but enough to cost me my position.”
”How absurd! Why, there are millions of things we might do!--millions!”
”What's one of them?” I inquired.
”Why, we might pretend to be married!” Her frank and absolutely innocent delight in this suggestion was refres.h.i.+ng, but troubling.
”We would have to be demonstrative to make that story go,” I said.
”Why? Well-bred people are not demonstrative in public,” she retorted, turning a trifle pink.
”No, but in private--”
”I think there is no necessity for carrying a pleasantry into our private life,” she said, in a perfectly amiable voice. ”Anyway, if Professor Farrago's feelings are to be spared, no sacrifice on the part of a mere girl could be too great,” she added, gayly; ”I will wear men's clothes if you wish.”
”You may have to anyhow in the jungle,” I said; ”and as it's not an uncommon thing these days, n.o.body would ever take you for anything except what you are--a very wilful and plucky and persistent and--”
”And what, Mr. Gilland?”
”And attractive,” I muttered.
”Thank you, Mr. Gilland.”
”You're welcome,” I snapped. The near whistle of a locomotive warned us, and I rose in the carriage, looking out across the sand-hills.
”That is probably our train,” observed the pretty stenographer.
”_Our_ train!”
”Yes; isn't it?”
”Then you insist--”
”Ah, no, Mr. Gilland; I only trust implicitly in my employer.”
”We'll wait till we get to Citron City,” I said, weakly; ”then it will be time enough to discuss the situation, won't it?”
”Yes, indeed,” she said, smiling; but she knew, and I already feared, that the situation no longer admitted of discussion. In a few moments more we emerged, without warning, from the scrub-crested sand-hills into the single white street of Citron City, where China-trees hung heavy with bloom, and magnolias, already set with perfumed candelabra, spread soft, checkered shadows over the marl.