"And then sometimes," St. George went on, his exultation proving
greater than his discretion, "we'll take the yacht and pretend
we're going back--"
He stopped abruptly with a quick indrawn breath and the hope that
she had not noticed. He was, by several seconds, too late.
"Whose yacht is it?" Olivia asked promptly. "I wondered."
St. George had dreaded the question. Someway, now that it was all
over and the prize was his, he was ashamed that he had not won it
more fairly and humiliated that he was not what she believed him, a
pillar of the _Evening Sentinel_. But Amory had miraculously heard
and turned himself about.
"It's his," he said briefly, "I may as well confess to you, Miss
Holland," he enlarged somewhat, "he's a great cheat. _The Aloha_ is
his, and so am I, busy body and idle soul, for using up his yacht
and his time on a newspaper story. You were the 'story,' you know."
"But," said Olivia in bewilderment, "I don't understand. Surely--"
"Nothing whatever is sure, Miss Holland," Amory sadly assured her,
but his eyes were smiling behind his pince-nez.
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