"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 successful, 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 stood 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.