And while like the Ancient Mariner he held Carter Van Meter on the sunny sand Honor and Jimsy walked sedately up the shore. They were a little ill at ease, both of them. It was the first time since--as Honor put it to herself--"it had happened" that they had been quite alone with each other in the hard, bright daylight. There had been delectable moments on the stairs, on the porch, stolen seconds in the summerhouse, but here they were on a blazing Sunday afternoon under a turquoise sky, with a salt and hearty wind stinging their faces, all by themselves. They would not be quite out of sight of the rest, though, until they rounded the next turn in the curving road. Jimsy looked back over his shoulder, obviously taking note of the fact. He knew that Honor knew it, too, and the sight of her hot cheeks, her resolute avoidance of his eyes put him suddenly at ease. "I guess," he said, casually, "this is kind of like Italy. Fair enough, isn't it?" "Heavenly," said Honor, a little breathlessly. "Italy! Just think, Jimsy,--next year at this time I'll _be_ in Italy!" "Gee," he said, solemn and aghast, "_gee_!" They had passed the turn and instantly he had her in a tense, vise-like hug. "No, you won't. No, you won't. _I won't let you._ I won't let you go 'way off there, alone, without me. I won't let you, Skipper, do you hear?" Suddenly he stopped talking and began to kiss her. Presently he laughed. "I've always known I was a poor nut, Skipper, but to think it took me eighteen years to discover what it would be like to kiss you!" He took up his task again. "Oh," said Honor, gasping, pushing him away with her hands against his chest--"you wouldn't have had _time_!" "I could have dropped Spanish or Math'," he grinned. "Come on,--let's go further up the coast. Some of those kids will be tagging after us, or Carter." "Not Carter. Stepper's reading to him. He won't let him come." "One peach of a scout, Stephen Lorimer is," said the boy, warmly. "Best scout in the world." "He's the best friend we've got in the world, Jimsy," she said gravely. "I know it. Your mother's pretty much peeved about it, Skipper." "Yes, she is, just now. Poor Muzzie! I'm afraid I've never pleased her very much. But she gets over things. She'll get over it when--when she finds that we _don't_ get over it!" She held out her hand to him and he took it in a hard grip, and they swung along at a fine stride, up the twisting shore road. They came at last to the great gate which led into the Malibou Ranch and they halted there and went down into a little pocket of rocks and sand and sun and sat down with their faces to the shining sea. He kissed her again. "No; you can't go to Italy, Skipper. That's settled." "Then--what are we going to do, Jimsy dear?" "Why, we'll just get--" his bright face clouded over. "Good Lord, I'm talking like a nit-wit. We've got to wait, that's all. What could I do now? Run up alleys with groceries? Take care of gardens?"