was his dearest possession. “I tell you, I’ve missed her. I’ve been mighty lonesome.”
Miss Minerva gave him a shrewd look. “Yes, I’ve heard rumors,” she remarked, “about how lonesome you’ve been.”
He flushed under his tan. “Amos, I suppose?”
“Oh, not only Amos. A great deal of talk, Dan. Really, at your age—”
“What do you mean, my age? I told you we’re all young out here.” He ate in silence for a moment. “You’re a good sport—I said it and I meant it. You must understand that here in the Islands a man may behave a—a bit differently than he would in the Back Bay.”
“At that,” she smiled, “all men in the Back Bay are not to be trusted. I’m not presuming to rebuke you, Dan. But—for Barbara’s sake—why not select as the object of your devotion a woman you could marry?”
“I could marry this one—if we’re talking about the same woman.”
“The one I refer to,” Miss Minerva replied, “is known, rather widely, as the Widow of Waikiki.”
“This place is a hotbed of gossip. Arlene Compton is perfectly respectable.”
“A former chorus girl, I believe.”
“Not precisely. An actress—small parts—before she married Lieutenant Compton.”
“And a self-made widow.”
“Just what do you mean by that?” he flared. His gray eyes glittered.
“I understand that when her husband’s aeroplane crashed on Diamond Head, it was because he preferred it that way. She had driven him to it.”
“Lies, all lies!” Dan Winterslip cried. “Pardon me
