“Stop!” begged Belle.  “Wait!”

She fled from the room, to return presently bearing the prettiest hat that Dave ever remembered having seen on her shapely young head.  In one hand she carried a dainty parasol that she turned over to him.

“What’s the cruise?” asked Darrin, rising.

“I’m going out to get that notebook, now.  Please don’t talk any more ‘midshipman’ to me until I get a chance to set the jargon down.”

As she stood there, such a pretty and wholesome picture, David Darrin thought he never before had seen such a pretty girl, nor one dressed in such exquisite taste.  Being a boy, it did not occur to him that Belle Meade had been engaged for weeks in designing this gown and others that she meant to wear during his brief stay at home.

“What are you thinking of?” asked Belle.

“What a pity it is that I am doomed to a short life,” sighed Darrin.

“A short life?  What do you mean?” Belle asked.

“Why, I’m going to be assassinated, the first hop that you attend at the Naval Academy.”

“So I’m a gold brick, am I?” frowned Belle.

“You—­a—­gold brick?” stammered Dave.  “Why, you—­oh, go look in the glass!”

“Who will assassinate you?”

“A committee made up from among the fellows whose names I don’t write down on your dance card.  And there are hundreds of them at Annapolis.  You can’t dance with them all.”

“I don’t intend to,” replied Belle, with a toss of her head.  “I’ll accept, as partners, only those who appear to me the handsomest and most distinguished looking of the midshipmen.  No one else can write his name on my card.”

“Dear girl, I’m afraid you don’t understand our way of making up dance cards at Crabtown.”

“Where?”

“Crabtown.  That’s our local name for Annapolis.”

“Gracious!  Let me get out quickly and get that notebook!”

“At midshipmen’s hops the fellow who drags the——­”

“Gold brick,” supplied Belle, resignedly.

“No—­not for worlds!  You’re no gold brick, Belle, and you know it, even though you do refuse to go to the mirror.  But the fellow who drags any femme—­”

“Please—?”

“‘Femme’ stands for girl.  The fellow who drags any femme makes up her dance card for her.”

“And she hasn’t a word to say about it?”

“Not as a rule.”

“Oh!” cried Belle, dramatically.

She moved toward the door.  Dave, who could not take his eyes from her pretty face, managed, somehow, to delay her.

“Belle, there’s something—­” he began.

“Good gracious!  Where?  What?” she cried, looking about her keenly.

“It’s something I want to say—­must say,” Dave went on with more of an effort than anyone but himself could guess.

“Tell me, as we’re going down the street,” invited Belle.

“Wha-a-at?” choked Dave.  “Well, I guess not!”