But--do you know, whenever we get up here
in the dark like this, I always wish it was Sydney to-morrow, and we
could be married. I hate to be away from you a minute; I wish we could
be together all day and all night, without stopping for meal times--"
"You've got the tropics badly, my child," he said, laughing a little
forcedly, as he tried to light a cigarette with trembling fingers and
finally gave it up.
"Why? Do people love each other more in the tropics?" she asked. "You
love me, don't you?"
"Of course I do. But girls are not supposed to talk about it like men
do. Girls have to pretend they don't feel all wobbly and anyhow, because
it's more fun for a man when a girl doesn't hurl herself at him."
"But why pretend? Why not be honest about it?" she said, her voice a
little flat. "You want me to love you, don't you?"
"Course I do. But you're so queer. Most girls let a chap do the
love-making. They dress themselves up--all laces and ribbons and things,
and pretend they're frightened to make a chap all the keener."
She thought it out, sitting up as straight as possible.
"I couldn't, Louis," she said decidedly. "I've read that in books, years
ago. I didn't understand it then, but I do now. And I think it's
horrible. Father had a lot of books about those things and I read them
to him when he was ill.
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