obviously feminine and therefore not to be informally accosted.
John Quincy looked down at her. Spanish or some- thing like that, blue-black hair, dark eyes that were alight now with the amusement she was striving to hide, a delicate oval face tanned a deep brown. He looked again at the harbor — beauty all about the boat, and beauty on it. Much better than traveling on trains!
The girl looked up at John Quincy. She saw a big, broad-shouldered young man with a face as innocent as a child's. A bit of friendliness, she decided instantly, would not be misunderstood.
'I beg your pardon," she said.
'Oh — I — I'm sorry," he stammered. "I didn't mean — I spoke without intending — I said I didn't under- stand—"
"You didn't understand what?"
"A most amazing thing has happened," he continued. He sat down, and waved his hand toward the harbor. "I've been here before."
She looked perplexed. "Lots of people have," she admitted.
"But — you see — I mean — I've never been here before."
She moved away from him. "Lots of people haven't." She admitted that, too.
John Quincy took a deep breath. What was this discussion he had got into, anyhow? He had a quick impulse to lift his hat gallantly and walk away, letting the whole matter drop. But no, he came of a race that sees things through.
"I'm from Boston," he said.
"Oh," said the girl. That explained everything.
