"We have too much luck."
"I know but--that awful woman with the face like a green pea--oh, Ollie,
you'd have hated me--we are lucky, darling."
Oliver has thought seriously enough about getting up to be dangling his
legs over the edge of his shelf by now.
"Aren't we?" he says soberly. "I mean I am."
"_I_ am. And everybody's being so nice about giving us checks we can use
instead of a lot of silly things we wouldn't know what to do with." She
smiles. "Those are your feet," she announces gravely.
"Yes. Well?"
"Oh, nothing. Only I'm going to tickle them."
"You're not? Ouch--Nancy, you _little devil_!" and Oliver slides hastily to
the floor. Then he goes over to the port-hole.
"A very nice day!" he announces in the face of a bull's eye view of dull
skies and oily dripping sea.
"Is it? How kind of it! Ollie, I must get up." "Nancy, you must." He goes
over and kneels awkwardly by the side of her berth--an absurd figure enough
no doubt in tortoise-shell spectacles and striped pajamas, but Nancy
doesn't think so. As for him he simply knows he never will get used to
having her with him this way all the time; he takes his breath delicately
whenever he thinks of it, as if, if he weren't very careful always about
being quiet she might disappear any instant like a fairy back into a book.
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