We watched for some time in silence, and then Peter growing sleepy, for we had gotten up very early that morning, Bill tucked him into a rug in a chair, and we left him asleep almost instantly, to walk the deck until luncheon. "I've got a scheme," said Bill. "Want to hear?" "Uh-huh!" said I. "New York first. Uncle John's, or, if you'd rather, a hotel. Your Dad will meet us. We'll ship Sarah on to Green Hill with Peter, to get the house in order and to look after the boy until the Goodriches return. When is it--ten days? And after you've gone on that shopping orgy you threatened me with, I'll have one of the men bring my car down from Green Hill and we'll motor. Would you like that?" "Oh, Bill, where?" I asked, skipping a little, and collapsing up against his side as the boat rolled. "Cape Cod, I thought, if you'd care about it. There's a dear old inn at Provincetown--I know you'd love it. We could go there, for a week or so--it's so early yet we'd have the place to ourselves. And then, early in May, back to Green Hill and settle for the summer. What do you think?" "I think you're a darling!" I answered, brazenly, and with just the effect I had calculated. And after we had told each other several times that no one in the world could be as happy and as much in love as we were--and firmly believed it, too I--Bill said suddenly, "I cabled Mother from Cuba--and wrote her. She will meet us in New York." "For heaven's sake," said I, "do you think she'll like me?" "Can't tell," said Bill, solemnly, "she's odd. But, after all, it isn't as if you were a stranger. You've corresponded with her, you know, and she made you some bed-socks. That's a bond." "But that was Richard Warren's mother," I said, not quite convinced. "She's mine too. Funny, isn't it? I think you've committed bigamy." "Is she really little and blue-eyed and red-haired?" I asked, "or was that poetic license?" "Honest truth. She's the prettiest thing in the world--except you. And I've written her all about it." "Did she know that I didn't know you were you?" I asked somewhat incoherently. But he understood. That was one of the nice things about Bill--recently, anyway. He was the Person Who Understood. He nodded. "Yes, but she didn't know everything--not that we were married." "Why?" I asked, curiously. He smiled down at me, very big, very protective. "Why, you see," said Bill gently, "she knew that I loved you. And she'd got to love you too. After all, she has a weakness for me, and an unbounded faith in my choice. And so--well, I didn't want to disappoint her--didn't want her to know how matters stood--that we weren't quite happy. So I waited. After a while, I grew afraid that she would have to be told after all--" "Please, don't," I said hastily. "What did you write her?"