’ ‘For shame, Hilary,’ admonished his fiancée, casting a pitying glance at the refugees. Only old librarians and Shirley Temples say that. . You make yourself charming for help. I’m not Gerald, remember. That same adventurousness that had already buoyed her through crises that would have overwhelmed any normally feminine girl with shame and horror now became uppermost again. He was the beachcomber, or the old sailor with the black pearl (Ruth's tales), or the wastrel musician McClintock had described to him. There was an air of repressed gaiety in her actions: the sense of freedom had returned; her heart was empty again. With a finger crooked in his side-pocket, she measured her step with his, her senses still dizzy from the echo of the magic sounds. . “My friend,” she said, “no! Let me tell you this.
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