"My necklace!" she repeated. "But it isn't mine. I picked it up in the car."
"All-ee!" Sam again. "I see you down there. I'm making a julep!"
Alison turned and called through her hands. "Coming in a moment, Sam," she said, and rose. "It must be very late: Sam is home. We would better go back to the house."
"Don't," I begged her. "Anchovies and juleps and Sam will go on for ever, and I have you such a little time. I suppose I am only one of a dozen or so, but—you are the only girl in the world. You know I love you, don't you, dear?"
Sam was whistling, an irritating bird call, over and over. She pursed her red lips and answered him in kind. It was more than I could endure.
"Sam or no Sam," I said firmly, "I am going to kiss you!"
But Sam's voice came strident through the megaphone, "Be good, you two," he bellowed, "I've got the binoculars!" And so, under fire, we walked sedately back to the house. My pulses were throbbing—the little swish of her dress be-
