“Na, na, mamma, I—­”

“Right away Mrs. Berkovitz says it will keep the salt air away from your rheumatism.  That’s what I need yet, you should grex from the start with your backache.  Ray, take this in to your papa.  Fooling with that new camera she stands all morning, when she should help a little.  Look, Miriam, you think that in here I got the express checks safe?”

“Yes, mamma.”

At ten o’clock, with the last bolt sprung and the last baggage departed, Mrs. Binswanger fell to the task of fitting gold links in her husband’s adjustable cuffs, polishing his various pairs of spectacles, inserting various handkerchiefs in adjacent and expeditious pockets of his clothing.

“Simon, I want you should go in and dress now.  All your things is laid right out on the bed for you.”

“Mamma, you and papa don’t need to begin to dress already.  None of you need to leave the house until about two, and it’s only ten now.  Just think, from now until two o’clock you got to get ready in, mamma.”

“When I travel I don’t take no chances.”

Miriam worked eager fingers into her new, dark-blue kid gloves.  She was dark and trig in a little belted jacket, a gold quill shimmering at a cocky angle on the new blue-straw hat.

“To be on the safe side, mamma, I’m going right now to meet Irving, so we can sure have lunch and be at the boat by two.”

“Not one minute later, Miriam!”

“Not one minute, mamma.  Don’t forget, Ray, you promised to bring my field-glass for me.  Be in the state-room all of you where Irving and I can find you easy.  There’s always a big crowd at sailing.  Don’t get excited, mamma.  Ray, be sure and fix papa’s cuffs so the red flannel don’t show.  Good-by.  Don’t get excited, mamma!”

“Miriam, you got on the asafetidy-bag?”

“Yes, mamma.”

“Miriam, you don’t be one minute later as two—­”

“No, mamma.”

“Miriam, you—­”

“Good-by!”

Over a luncheon that lay cold and unrelished between them Irving Shapiro leaned to Miriam Binswanger, his voice competing with the five-piece orchestra and noonday blather of the Oriental Cafe.

“I just can’t get it in my head, somehow, Miriam, that to-morrow this time you’ll be out on the sea.”

“Me neither.”

“I just never had two weeks fly like these since we got acquainted.”

“Me—­me neither.”

Music like great laughter rose over the slip-up in her voice.

“You going to write to me, Miriam?”

“Yes, Irving.”

“Often?”

“Yes, Irving.”

“You’re not going to forget me over there, are you, when you get to meeting all those counts and big fellows?”

“Oh, Irving!”

“You’re not going to clean forget me then, are you, Miriam, and the great times we’ve had together, and the days in the woods, and the singing, and—­”