“I may have told you that they were getting worried about me at home. Because I haven’t been able to tear myself away from Honolulu, I mean. Well, they’re sending a policeman for me.”
“A policeman?” He lifted his bushy eyebrows.
“Yes, it amounts to that. It’s not being done openly, of course. Grace writes that John Quincy has six weeks’ vacation from the banking house, and has decided to make the trip out here. ‘It will give you some one to come home with, my dear,’ says Grace. Isn’t she subtle?”
“John Quincy Winterslip? That would be Grace’s son.”
Miss Minerva nodded. “You never met him, did you, Dan? Well, you will, shortly. And he certainly won’t approve of you.”
“Why not?” Dan Winterslip bristled.
“Because he’s proper. He’s a dear boy, but oh, so proper. This journey is going to be a great cross for him. He’ll start disapproving as he passes Albany, and think of the long weary miles of disapproval he’ll have to endure after that.”
“Oh, I don’t know. He’s a Winterslip, isn’t he?”
“He is. But the gypsy strain missed him completely. He’s all Puritan.”
“Poor boy.” Dan Winterslip moved toward the tray on which stood the amber-colored drinks. “I suppose he’ll stop with Roger in San Francisco. Write him there and tell him I want him to make this house his home while he’s in Honolulu.”
“That’s kind of you, Dan.”
“Not at all. I like youth around me—even the Puritan brand. Now that you’re going to be apprehended and taken back to civilization, you’d better have one of these cocktails.”
