“Mean it? I meant it as I’ve never meant anything in the world. But you—what do you mean? Do you mean that you’ll—you’ll let the yacht go without you—and—and—and stay here, and m-m-marry me?” “If you should ask me,” she said, half-laughing, half-crying, “what else could I do? I’m alone and deserted. And there’s only you in the world.” “Miss P-P-Polly,” he began, “I—I can’t believe—” “It’s true!” she cried, and held out two yearning hands to him. “And if you stammer and stutter and—and—and act like the Unspeakable Perk _now_, I’ll—I’ll howl!” If she had any such project, the chance was lost on the instant of the warning, as he caught her to him and held her close. “Oh!” she cried, trying to push him away. “Do you know, sir, that this is a public square?” “Well, I didn’t choose it,” he reminded her, laughing in pure joy, with a boyish note new to her ear. “Anyway, there are only us two under the sun.” And he drew her close again, whispering in her ear. “Oh—oh, is that the language of medical science?” she reproved. At this point, generic curiosity overcame the feathered eavesdropper in the tree above. “Qu’est-ce qu’il dit?”—“What’s he say?” The girl turned a flushed and adorable face upward. “I won’t tell you. It’s for me alone,” she declared joyously. “But you’ll never stop saying it, will you, dear?” “Never, as long as we both shall live. And that reminds me,” he said soberly. “We must arrange about being married.” “Oh, that reminds you, does it?” she mocked. “Just incidentally, like that.” Boom! Boom! Boom! The mission clock kept patiently at it until its suggestion struck in. “Of course!” he cried. “Mr. Lake, the missionary, will marry us. And we’ll have Stark and Wisner for witnesses. How long does it take a bride to get ready? Would half an hour be enough?” “It’s rather a short engagement,” she remarked demurely. “But if it’s all the time we’ve got—” “It is. But, darling, we’ll have to ride for it afterward, and get across to the mainland. I’ve no right to let you in for such a risk,” he cried remorsefully. “You couldn’t help yourself,” she teased saucily. “I ran you down like one of your own beetles. Besides, what does that permit for the Dutch ship say?” “That’s for myself and a woman—the leper woman. Not for myself and my wife.” “Well, I’m a woman, aren’t I? And it doesn’t say that the woman _mustn’t_ be your wife.” She blushed distractingly. “Caesar! Of course it doesn’t! What luck! We’ll be in Curaçao to-morrow. I must see Wisner about getting us off. But, Polly, dearest one, you’re sure? You haven’t let yourself be carried away by that foolishness of mine yesterday?” “Sure? Oh, beetle man!” She put her hands on his shoulders and bent to his ear. The sulphur-colored winged Paul Pry stuck an impertinent head out from behind a palm leaf. “Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit? Qu’est-ce qu’elle dit?” For the second and last time in his adult life the beetle man threw a stone at a bird.