The young man in the seat behind Barbara at the jai alai games had
leaned forward finally and asked if she were ill and if she would like
to be escorted back to the ship. Barbara had looked up at him, had
looked at his looks, and said yes, she thought she would, thank you,
that she did have kind of a headache, and that it was certainly was
awfully nice of him. Then they had stood up together and left the
stadium, returning to the ship by taxi and tender. But before she had
gone into her cabin on B deck, Barbara had said nervously to the young
man: "Hey. I could just take an aspirin or something. I could meet you
on the deck where the shuffleboard stuff is. You know who you look
like? You look like a boy who was in a lot of West Pointy pictures with
Dick Powell and Ruby Keeler and-when I was little. Never see him
anymore. Listen. I could just take an aspirin. Unless you have
something else-" The young man had interrupted her, saying, in so many
words, that he had nothing else to do. Then Barbara had walked quickly
forward to her cabin. She was wearing a red-and-blue striped evening
gown, and her figure was very young and sassy. There were several years
to go before her figure stopped being sassy and just became a very
pretty figure.

The young man-his name was Ray Kinsella, and he was a member of the
ship's Junior Entertainment Committee-waited for Barbara at the railing
on the portside of the promenade deck. Nearly all the passengers were
ashore and, in the stillness and moonlight, it was a powerful place to
be. The only sound in the night came from the Havana harbor water
slucking gently against the sides of the ship. Through the moon mist
the Kungsholm could be seen, anchored sleepy and rich, just a few
hundred feet aft. Farther shoreward a few small boats corked about.

"I'm back," said Barbara.

The young man, Ray, turned. "Oh. You changed your dress."

"Don't you like white?"-quickly.

"Sure. It's fine," said Ray. She was looking at him a little
nearsightedly, and he guessed she probably wore glasses when she was
home. He looked at his wrist watch now. "Listen. A tender's going to
leave in a minute. Would you like to go ashore again and horse around a
little? I mean do you feel all right?"

"I took an aspirin. Unless you have something else to do," said
Barbara. "I don't want to stay on the ship very much."

"Let's hurry, then," said Ray, and took her arm.

Barbara had to run to keep up with him. "Golly," she said, "how tall
are you anyway?"

"Six-four. Hurry a little."

The tender bobbed only slightly in the calm water. Ray slipped his
hands under Barbara's arms, eased her down to the tender pilot and then
jumped into the boat himself. The little action disordered a single
lock of his dark hair and hiked up the back of his dinner jacket. He
pulled down his jacket, and a pocket comb immediately found its way to
his hand; he passed it just once, brought up in the rear by the careful
flat of his other hand, through his hair. Then he looked around.
Besides Barbara and himself and the pilot there were only three people
in the tender. One of them he identified as a A-deck stewardess-she
probably had a shore date with one of the crew. The other two people, a
couple in their late forties, were familiar-faced passengers whom Ray
didn't know by name-they were regulars at the horse-racing game each
afternoon, he knew though. He lost interest at that point and steadied
Barbara as the little craft shoved off.

The wife, however, was beginning to look interested in Barbara and Ray.
She was a beautifully, a perfectly, gray-haired woman in a long sleeved
evening gown with Thurber dogs in the pattern. She was wearing a
pear-shaped diamond ring and a diamond bracelet. Just on sight no one
very sensible would have laid bets on her background. She might, years
ago, have walked very erectly across a Broadway stage, with an ostrich
fan, singing A Pretty Girl Is Like A Melody, or something similarly
ostrich fan-ish. She might have been an ambassador's daughter or a
fireman's daughter. She might have been her husband's secretary for
years. As only second-class beauty can be identified, there is no way
of telling.

She spoke to Barbara and Ray suddenly.

"Isn't it a heavenly night?"

"It certainly is," Ray said.

"Don't you just feel wonderful?" the woman asked Barbara.

"I do now. I didn't before," Barbara answered politely.

"Oh," said the woman, smiling, "I just feel wonderful." She slipped
her arm through her husband's. Then for the first time she noticed the
stewardess from A deck, who was standing beside the pilot. She called
to her: "Don't you just feel marvelous tonight?"

The stewardess turned. "I beg your pardon?" Her tone was that of an
off-duty snob.

"I said don't you feel just wonderful. Isn't it a heavenly night?"

"Oh," said the stewardess, smiling briefly, "I guess so."

"Oh, it is," said the woman emphatically. "One would never know it was
nearly December." She visibly squeezed her husband's hand and addressed
him in the same ecstatic tones she had been using. "You do feel
marvelous, don't you darling?"

"Sure do," said her husband and winked at Barbara and Ray. He wore a
wine-colored dinner jacket that was cut very full, letting him look
huge rather than overweight.

The woman turned and looked out over the water. "Heavenly," she said
softly. She touched her husbands sleeve. "Darling, look at those sweet
little boats."

"Where?"

"There. Over there."

"Oh yeah. Nice."

The woman spoke suddenly to Barbara. "I'm Diane Woodruff and this is my
husband Fielding."

Barbara and Ray in turn introduced themselves

"Of course!" said Mrs. Woodruff to Ray. "You're the boy who runs all
the tournaments. Lovely." She again looked out over the water. "Those
poor little boats. They all belong in bathtubs." She looked at Barbara
and Ray. "Where are you both going? Why don't you come along with us?
Of course! You must. Say you will. Please do."

"Well, I-it's very nice of you," answered Ray. "I don't know what
Barbara had-"

"I'd love to," said Barbara. "Where are you going? I mean, I've never
been to Havana before."

"Everywhere!" said Mrs. Woodruff roundly. "Well, isn't this just
perfect?" She leaned forward and called again to the stewardess. "Dear,
wouldn't you like to join us? Please do."

"I'm sorry. I hafta meet somebody. Thanks just the same, though."

"What a pity. Fielding, darling, you look like a college boy, so young.
It's indecent."

"Me? An old punk like me?"

"Where are you from dear?" Mrs. Woodruff asked Barbara.

"Coopersburg, Pennsylvania. It's near Pittsburgh."

"Oh, how nice. And you?"

"Salt Lake City," said Ray.

"We're from San Francisco. Isn't it wonderful? Do you think we'll be in
the war soon, Mr. Walters? My husband doesn't think so."

"Kinsella," corrected Ray. "I don't know. I go in the Army anyway when
the cruise is over."

Mrs. Woodruff put a hand to her mouth. "Oh!" she said. "Oh, I'm so
sorry!"

"Oh, It won't be too bad," Ray explained." I have a commission in the
artillery from R.O.T.C. I'll have my own battery and all. I mean I
won't have to take anybody's guff."

As the tender bumped gently into port, Ray put his arm around Barbara's
waist to steady her.

"She has no waist at all," said Mrs. Woodruff and looked gently at Ray.
"How perfect it must be for you to be out on a night like this with
somebody who has absolutely no waist at all."

Ray, who had recommended it, led the way into Viva Havana. It was
chiefly a tourist spot, but with money and highhandedness behind it.
There was nothing inside except the waiters. The owner was Irish, the
menu was French, the headwaiter was Swiss, the orchestra was mostly
Brooklyn, the chorus girls were former citizens of Shubert's alley, and
Scotch sold better than any other drink. The jai alai games over, the
crowd from the ship had already arrived at Viva Havana and were
distributed sunburntly around the vast, noisy room. Ray immediately
noticed the young lady whom he and the other Junior Committeemen had
intimately voted Miss Latex Bathing Suit of 1941. She was swaying, half
in and half out of her partner's arms, near the orchestra stand,
talking to the leader, probably asking him to play Stardust. Ray also
spotted the governor-elect - the ship's celebrity - on his way to the
game room, wearing a white dinner jacket, not his usual
man-of-the-people skimpy black suit. The Masterson Twins, Ray also
noticed, were at a table with - in the parlance of the ship's
employees - the Chicago Catch and the Cleveland Outfumbler, was just
unquestionably tight. Mr. Woodruff attended to the ordering when they
were all seated. Then he and Mrs. Woodruff pried their way to the dance
floor.

"Would you like to dance?" Ray asked Barbara.

"Not right away. I don't know how to rumba. I need something very slow,
anyway. Look at Mrs. Woodruff. She's very good."

"She's not bad," conceded Ray.

Barbara said excitedly, "Isn't she nice? Isn't she beautiful? She's
so - so I don't know what. Golly!"

"She certainly talks a lot," Ray said, stirring his highball.

"You must meet a lot of people, going on these cruises all the time,"
Barbara said.

"This is only the second time. I just quit college. Yale. I was going
in the army anyway, so I figured I might as well have a little fun."
He lit a cigarette.

"What do you do?" he asked.

"I used to work. I don't do anything now. I didn't go to college."

"I haven't seen your mother anywheres around tonight," said the Yale
man.

"The lady traveling with me?" said Barbara. "She isn't my mother."

"She isn't?"

"No. My mother's dead. She's my mother-in-law-to-be."

"Oh."

Barbara reached forward for the centerpiece matchbox. She struck a
match, blew it out, struck another, blew it out and drew back her hands
to her lap. "I was sick for a while," she said, "and my fianc‚ wanted
me to go away for a rest. Mrs. Odenhearn said she'd take me on a cruise
or something. So we went."

"Well!" said Ray, who was watching Miss Latex Bathing Suit of 1941
perform on the dance floor. "It's like being with a girl my own age,
almost," Barbara said. "She's very nice. She was a great athlete when
she was young."

"She seems very nice. Drink your drink, why don't you?"

Barbara picked up her drink and sipped a sixteenth of an inch of it. "I
can dance to what they're playing now," she said.

"Fine."

They stood up and worked their way to the dance floor.

Barbara danced rigidly and without any perceptible feeling for rhythm.
In her nervousness she got Ray's arm into a peculiar position, locked
it just enough to give him trouble leading her.

"I'm an awful dancer."

"You certainly are not," said Ray.

"My brother tried to teach me when I was little."

"Oh?"

"He's about your size. He used to play football in high school. Only he
hurt his knee and had to stop. He could've had a scholarship to almost
any college if he hadn't hurt himself."

The floor was so crowded that it mattered relatively little how poorly
they danced together. Ray suddenly noticed how blond, how corn yellow,
Barbara's hair was. "What's your fianc‚ like?" he asked.

"Carl? Oh, he's very nice. He sounds lovely over the telephone. He's
very - very considerate about stuff."

"What stuff?"

"Oh...stuff. I don't know. I don't understand boys. I never know what
they're talking about."

Ray suddenly lowered his head and kissed Barbara on the forehead. It
tasted sweet and left him feeling unsteady.

"Why did you do that?" Barbara said, not looking up at him.

"I don't know. Are you sore?"

"It's so warm in here," Barbara said. "Golly."

"How old are you, Barbara?"

"Eighteen. How old are you?"

"Well, actually I'm twenty-two."

They went on dancing.

"My father had a cerebral hemorrhage and died last summer," Barbara
said.

"Oh! That's tough."

"I live with my aunt. She's a teacher at Coopersburg High. Did you ever
read Green Light by Lloyd C. Douglas?"

"I don't get much time for books. Why? Is it good?"

"I didn't read it. My aunt wants me to read it. I'm stepping all over
your feet."

"No, you're not."

"My aunt's very nice," Barbara said.

"You know," said Ray, "it's very hard to follow your conversation
sometimes."

She didn't answer, and for a moment he was afraid he had offended her.
He felt a slight panic rise in his head at the thought: he still tasted
her forehead on his lips. But, below his chin, Barbara's voice spoke up
again.

"My brother had a car accident just before I left."

It was a great relief to hear.

The Woodruffs were already seated at the table. Their shot glasses of
bourbon were empty and their chasers barely sipped. "I waved to you,"
Mrs. Woodruff lightly accused Barbara. "You didn't even wave back."

"Why, I certainly did wave back to you," Barbara said.

"Did you watch us rumba?" asked Mrs. Woodruff. "Weren't we marvelous?
Fielding's a Latin at heart. We're both Latins. I'm going to the powder
room ...Barbara?"

"Not just now. I'm watching a drunken man," Barbara said.

As Mrs. Woodruff left the table, almost simultaneously her husband
leaned forward and addressed the two young people.

"I'm trying to keep something from her. Our son's going to join the
Army while we're gone, I think. He wants to be a flier. It would kill
Mrs. Woodruff if she knew." Mr. Woodruff then sat back, sighed heavily
and catching the waiter's eye, he signaled for another round of drinks.
Then he stood up, used his handkerchief forcibly and wandered away from
the table. Barbara watched him until he disappeared: then she turned
and spoke to Ray:

"Do you like clams and oysters and stuff?"

Ray started slightly. "Well, yes. Sort of."

"I don't like any kinds of shell food," Barbara said nervously. "Do you
know what I heard today? I heard the ship may not make any more cruises
till after the war."

"It's just a rumor," said Ray casually. "Don't look so sad about it.
You and what's-his-name - Carl - can take this same cruise after the
war," Ray said, watching her.

"He's going in the Navy."

"After the war, I said."

"I know," said Barbara, nodding, "but - everything's so funny. I feel
so funny."

She stopped short, unable or unwilling to express herself.

Ray moved a little closer to her. "You have nice hands, Barbara," he
said.

She removed them from the table. "They're terrible now. I couldn't get
the right polish."

"They're not terrible.' Ray picked up one of her hands - and
immediately let go of it. He stood up and drew Mrs. Woodruff's chair
for her.

Mrs. Woodruff smiled, lit a cigarette and looked alertly at them both.
"I want you both to leave very shortly," she said smiling. "This place
isn't at all right for you."

"Why?" asked Barbara, with wide eyes.

"Really. This is the sort of place to go when the very best things are
over and there's mostly money left. We don't even belong here -
Fielding and I. Please. Take a lovely walk somewhere." Mrs. Woodruff
appealed to Ray. "Mr. Walters," she said, "aren't there any
not-to-well-organized clambakes or hayrides tonight?"

"Kinsella," corrected Ray, rather curtly. "Afraid not."

"I've never been to a clambake or a hayride," Barbara said.

"Oh! Oh, what bad news! They're so nice. Oh, how I hate 1941."

Mr. Woodruff sat down. "What's that, dear?" he asked.

I said I hate 1941," said his wife peculiarly. And without moving she
broke into tears, smiling at all of them. "I do," she said. "I detest
it. It's full of armies waiting to fill up with boys, and girls and
mothers waiting to live in mailboxes and smirking old headwaiters who
don't have to go anywhere. I detest it. It's a rotten year."

"We're not even in the war yet, dear," said Mr. Woodruff. Then he said:
"Boys have always had to go to war. I went. Your brothers went."

"It's not the same. It's not rotten in the same way. Time isn't any
good anymore. You and Paul and Freddy left relatively nice things
behind you. Dear God. Bobby won't even go on a date if he hasn't any
money. It's entirely different. It's entirely rotten."

"Well," said Ray awkwardly. He looked at his wristwatch: then at
Barbara. "Like to take in a few sights?" he asked her.

"I don't know," said Barbara, still staring at Mrs. Woodruff.
Mr. Woodruff leaned forward toward his wife. "Like to play a little
roulette, honey?"

"Yes. Yes, of course, darling." Mrs. Woodruff looked up. "Oh, are you
leaving, children?" she asked.

It was a little after four in the morning. At one o'clock the portside
deck steward had set up some of his deck chairs to accommodate the
nondissipating crowd who would, a few hours later, use the
post-breakfast sunshine. There are many things you can do in a deck
chair: eat hot hors d'oeuvres when a man passes with them on a tray,
read a magazine or a book, show snapshots of your grandchildren, knit,
worry about money, worry about a man, worry about a woman, get seasick,
watch the girls on their way to the swimming pool, watch for flying
fish...But two people in the deck chairs, drawn however closely
together, can't kiss each other very comfortably. Either the arms of a
deck chair are too high or the persons involved are seated too deeply.

Ray was seated on Barbara's left. His right arm, resting on the hard
wood of her chair, was sore from pressure.

Both of their voices had struck four.

"How're you feeling now?" Ray asked.

"Me? I feel fine."

"No, I mean do you still feel a little tight? Maybe we shouldn't have
gone to that last place."

"Me? I wasn't tight." Barbara thought a minute, then asked: "Were you?"

"Heck no, I never get tight." This inaccurate piece of intelligence
seemed automatically to renew Ray's visa to advance over the unguarded
frontier of Barbara's deck chair.

After two hours of kissing, Barbara's lips were a little chapped, but
still tender and earnest and interested. Ray could not have remembered,
even if he had tried, when he had been comparably affected by another
girl's kiss. As he kissed her again now, he was reupset by the
sweetness, the generously qualified and requalified innocence of her
kiss.

When the kiss ended - he could never unconditionally concede to the
ending of one of Barbara's kisses - he drew back a very little and
began to speak with a hoarseness unnatural even to the hours and the
highballs and cigarettes consumed. "Barbara. No kidding. We'll do it,
huh? We'll get married, huh?"

Barbara, beside him in the dark, was still.

"No, really," Ray begged, as though he had been contradicted. "We'll be
damn happy. Even if we get in the war I'll probably never be sent
overseas or anything. I'm lucky that way. We'd - we'd have a swell
time." He searched her still face in the moonlight. "Wouldn't we?"

"I don't know," said Barbara.

"Sure you know! Sure you know! I mean, hell. We're right for each
other."

"I keep even forgetting your name," Barbara said practically. "Golly.
We hardly know each other."

"Listen. We know each other a lot better than most people that know
each other for months!" Ray informed recklessly.

"I don't know. I wouldn't know what to tell Mrs. Odenhearn."

"His mother? Just tell her the truth, is all!" was Ray's advice.

Barbara made no reply. She bit nervously at the cuticle of her thumb.
Finally she spoke. "Do you think I'm dumb?"

"Do I what? Do I think you're dumb? I certainly don't!"

"I'm considered dumb," said Barbara slowly. "I am a little dumb. I
guess."

"Now stop that talk. I mean, stop it. You're not dumb. You're - smart.
Who said you're dumb? That guy Carl?"

Barbara was vague about it. "Oh, not exactly. Girls, more. Girls I went
to school with and go around with."

"They're crazy."

"How am I smart?" Barbara wanted to know. "You said I was smart."

"Well, you - you just are, that's all!" said Ray. "Please." And
equipped only for the most primary kind of eloquence, he leaned over
and kissed her at great length - persuasively, he hoped.

At last Barbara gently interrupted him by removing her lips from his.
Her face in the moonlight was troubled, but slackly, with her mouth
slightly open, without consciousness of being watched.

"I wish I weren't dumb," she said to the night.

Ray was impatient - but careful.

"Barbara. I told you. You're not dumb. Please. You're not at all dumb.
You're very - intelligent." He looked at her very possessively,
jealously. "What are you thinking about?" he demanded. "That Carl guy?"

She shook her head.

"Barbara. Listen. We'll be happy as anything. No kidding. I know we
haven't known each other very long. That's probably what you're
thinking about. But this is a lousy time. I mean with the Army and all,
and everybody upside down. In other words, if two people love each
other they oughtta stick together."

He searched her face, less desperately, bolstered by what he considered
to be his sudden insight and eloquence. "Don't you think so?" he asked
moderately.

"I don't know," said Barbara and began to cry.

She cried painfully, with double-edged gulps from the diaphragm.
Alarmed by the violence of her sorrow and by being a witness to it, but
impatient with the sorrow itself, Ray was a poor pacifier. Barbara
finally emerged from the private accident entirely on her own.

I'm all right," she said. "I think I better go to bed." She stood up
unsteadily.

Ray jumped up and took her arm.

I'll see you in the morning, won't I?" he asked. "You're playing off
the finals in the doubles tournament, aren't you? The deck tennis
tournament?"

"Yes," said Barbara. "Well, good night."

"Don't say it like that," said Ray, reprovingly.

"I don't know how I said it," said Barbara.

"Well. I mean, heck. You said it as though you didn't even know me or
anything. Gosh, I've asked you to marry me about twenty times."

"I told you I was dumb," Barbara explained simply.

"I wish you'd stop saying that."

"Good night," said Barbara. "Thank you for a lovely time. Really." She
extended her hand.

The Woodruffs were the only passengers on the last tender from shore to
ship. Mrs. Woodruff was in her stockinged feet, having given her shoes
to the taxi driver for his lovely driving. They were now ascending the
narrow, steep ladder which stretched flimsily between the tender
platform and the B deck port door.

Mrs. Woodruff preceded her husband, several times swinging precariously
around to see if her husband was obeying the rules she had imposed on
them both.

"You're holding the thing. The rope," she accused, looking down now at
her husband.

"Not," denied Mr. Woodruff indignantly. His bow tie was undone. The
collar of his dinner jacket was half turned up in the back.

"I distinctly said no one was to hold on to the rope," pronounced
Mrs. Woodruff.

Wavering she took another step.

Mr. Woodruff stared back at her, his face teetering between confusion
and abysmal melancholy. Abruptly, he turned his back on his wife and
sat down where he was. He was almost precisely at the middle of the
ladder. The drop to the water was at least thirty feet.

"Fielding! Fielding, you come up here instantly!"

For answer, Mr. Woodruff placed his chin on his hands.

Mrs. Woodruff weaved dangerously, then she lifted her skirts and
successfully, if inexplicably, made the descent to the rung just above
her husband's seat. She embraced him with a half Nelson which nearly
capsized them both. "Oh, my baby," she said. "Are you angry with me?"

"You said I was using the rope," said Mr. Woodruff, his voice breaking
slightly.

"But, baby mouse, you were!"

"Was not," said Mr. Woodruff.

Mrs. Woodruff kissed the top of her husband's head, where the hair was
thinnest.

"Of course you weren't," she said She locked her hands ecstatically
around Mr. Woodruff's throat. "Do you love me mouse?" she asked,
practically cutting off his respiration. His reply was unintelligible.
"Too tight?" asked Mrs. Woodruff. She relaxed her hold, looked out over
the shimmering water and answered her own question. "Of course you love
me. It would be unforgivable of you not to love me. Sweet boy, please
don't fall; put both feet on the rung. How did you get so tight dear? I
wonder why our marriage has been such a joy. We're so stinking rich. We
should have, by all the rules, drifted continents apart. You do love me
so much it's almost unbearable, don't you? Sweet, put both feet on the
rung, like a good boy. Isn't it nice here? We're defying Magellan's
law. Darling, put your arms around me - no, don't move! You can't where
you're sitting. I'll make believe your arms are around me. What did you
think of that little boy and that little girl? Barbara and Eddie. They
were - unequipped. Didn't you think? She was lovely. He was full of
baloney. I do hope she behaves sensibly. Oh, this crazy year. It's a
devil. I pray the child uses her head. Dear God, make all the children
use their heads now - You're making the years so horrible now, dear
God." Mrs. Woodruff poked her husband in the back. "Fielding, you pray,
too."

"Pray what?"

"Pray that the children use their heads now."

"What children?"

"All of them darling. Bobby. Our little gorgeous Bobby. The Freemont
girls with their candy ears. Betty and Donald Mercer. The Croft
children. All of them. Especially that little girl who was with us
tonight. Barbara. I can't get her out of my mind. Pray, darling boy."

"All right."

"Oh, you're so sweet." Mrs. Woodruff stroked the back of her husband's
neck.

Suddenly, but slowly, she said: " 'I adjure you, O daughters of
Jerusalem, By the roes, and by the hinds of the field, That ye stir not
up, nor awaken love, Until it please.' "

Mr. Woodruff had heard her.

"What's 'at from?" he asked.

"The Song of songs. The Bible. Darling, don't turn around. I'm so
afraid you'll fall."

"You know everything," said Mr. Woodruff solemnly. "You know
everything."

"Oh, you sweet! Pray a little for the children, my sweet boy. Oh, what
a detestable year!"

"Barbara? Is that you dear?"

"Yes, it is , Mrs. Odenhearn."

"You can turn on the light, dear. I'm awake."

"I can undress in the dark. Really."

Of course you can't. Turn them on dear." Mrs. Odenhearn had been a
deadly serious tennis player in her day, had even once opposed Helen
Wills in an exhibition match. She still had two rackets restrung
annually, in New York, by a "perfect little man" who happened to be six
feet tall. Even now, in bed at 4:45 A.M., a "Yours, partner!" quality
rang in her voice.

"I'm wide awake," she announced. "Been awake for hours. They've been so
many drunken people passing the cabin. Absolutely no consideration for
others. Turn on the light, dear."

Barbara turned on the lights. Mrs. Odenhearn, to shield herself from
the glare, put thumb and forefinger to her eyes, then dropped her hand
away and smiled strongly. Her hair was in curlers, and Barbara didn't
look at her very directly.

"There's a different class of people, these days," Mrs. Odenhearn
observed. "This ship really used to be quite nice. Did you have a nice
time, dear?"

"Yes, I did, thank you. It's too bad you didn't go. Is your foot any
better?"

Mrs. Odenhearn, with mock seriousness, raised an index finger and
wagged it at Barbara. "Now listen to me, young lady. If we lose our
match today it's not going to be on my account. Put that in your pipe
and smoke it. So there!"

Barbara smiled and slid her suitcase out from under the unoccupied twin
bed - her bed. She placed it on the bed and began to look for something
in it. Mrs. Odenhearn was thinking.

"I saw Mrs. Helger and Mrs. Ebers in the lounge after you left
tonight."

"Oh?" said Barbara.

"They're out for our blood tomorrow, I don't mind telling you. You must
play just a little closer to the net when I'm serving, dear."

"I'll try to," Barbara said, and went on looking through her suitcase,
turning over soft things.

"Hurry to bed, dear. Hippity Hop," said Mrs. Odenhearn.

"I can't find my - oh, here they are." Barbara withdrew a pair of
pajamas.

"Peter Rabbit," said Mrs. Odenhearn warmly.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Carl used to love Peter when he was a child." Mrs. Odenhearn raised
her voice an octave or so: " 'Mummy, wead me Peatie Wabbit,' he used to
say. Over and over again. I just wish I had a penny for every time that
child had to have Peter read to him."

Barbara smiled again and started for the adjoining bathroom with her
pajamas under her arm. She was briefly arrested by Mrs. Odenhearn's
raised voice. "Someday you'll be reading Peter to your little boy."

Barbara didn't have to smile, as she was already in the bathroom. She
closed the door. When she came out in her pajamas a moment later,
Mrs. Odenhearn, who didn't inhale, was smoking a cigarette through her
holder - one of the kind advertised to be a denicotinizer. She was also
in the act of reaching for her ship's library novel, which stood on the
night table.

"All ready for bed, dear? I just thought I'd read one little chapter of
my book. It may just make me sleepy. So many, many things running
through my poor old head."

Barbara smiled and got into bed.

"Will the light bother you, dear?"

"Not at all. I'm awfully tired." Barbara turned over on her side, away
from the light and Mrs. Odenhearn. "Good night," she said.

"Sleep tight, dear...Oh, I think I'll try to sleep too! It's a very
silly book, anyway. Honestly, I never read charming books anymore. The
authors nowadays seem to try to write about unattractive things. I
think if I could read just one more book by Sarah Milford Pease I'd be
happy. She's dead, poor soul, though. Cancer."

Mrs. Odenhearn snapped off the table light.

Barbara lay several minutes in the darkness. She knew she ought to wait
until next week or next month or next - something. But her heart was
nearly pounding her out of bed. "Mrs. Odenhearn." The name was out. It
tood upright in the darkness.

"Yes, dear?"

"I don't want to get married."

"What's that?"

"I don't want to get married."

Mrs. Odenhearn sat up in bed. She fished competently for the table
light switch.

Barbara shut her eyes before the room could be lighted and prayed
without words and without thoughts. She felt Mrs. Odenhearn speak to
the back of her head.

"You're very tired. You don't mean what you're saying, dear."

The word "dear" whisked into position - upright in the darkness beside
Mrs. Odenhearn's name.

"I just don't want to get married to anybody yet."

"Well! This is certainly very - unusual - Barbara. Carl loves you a
great, great deal, dear."

"I'm sorry. Honestly."

There was a very brief silence. Mrs. Odenhearn shattered it. "You must
do," she said suddenly, "what you think right, dear. I'm sure that if
Carl were here he'd be a very, very hurt boy. On the other hand-"

Barbara listened. It amounted to an interruption, she listened so
intently.

"On the other hand," said Mrs. Odenhearn, "it's always the best way to
rectify a mistake before it's made. If you've given this matter a
great, great deal of thought I'm sure Carl will be the last to blame
you, dear."

The ship's library novel, upset by Mrs. Odenhearn's vigorous elbow,
fell from the night table to the floor. Barbara heard her pick it up.

"You sleep now, dear. We'll see when the sun's shining beautifully how
we feel about things. I want you to think of me as you would of your
own mother if she were alive. I want so to help you understand your own
mind," said Mrs. Odenhearn, and added: "Of course, I know that one
can't alter children's minds so easily these days, once they're made
up. And I do know you have a great, great character."

When Barbara heard the light snap off, she opened her eyes. She got out
of bed and went into the bathroom. She came out almost at once, wearing
a robe and slippers, and spoke to Mrs. Odenhearn in the darkness.

"I'm just going on the deck for a little while."

"What do you have on?"

"My robe and slippers. It's all right. Everyone's asleep."

Mrs. Odenhearn flicked on the table light again. She looked at Barbara
acutely, neither approving nor disapproving. Her look said, "All right.
It's over. I can hardly contain myself, I'm so happy. You're on your
own for the rest of the cruise. Just don't disgrace or embarrass me."
Barbara read the look faultlessly.

"Good-bye."

"Don't catch cold, dear."

Barbara shut the door behind her and began to walk through the silent,
lighted passages. She climbed the steps to A deck and walked through
the concert lounge, using the aisle a cleaning squad had left between
the stacked bodies of easy chairs. In less than four months' time there
would be no easy chairs in the concert lounge. Instead, more than three
hundred enlisted men would be arranged wakefully on their backs across
the floor.

High above on the promenade deck, for nearly an hour Barbara stood at
the portside rail. Despite her cotton pajamas and rayon robe there was
no danger of her catching cold. The fragile hour was a carrier of many
things, but Barbara was now exclusively susceptible to the difficult
counterpoint sounding just past the last minutes of her girlhood.

Copyright © J. D. Salinger