“But—­why do you have to write it?” gasped Barton.

Languidly her heavy lashes shadowed down across her cheeks again.  “It’s for the British consul at Nunko-Nono,” she said.  “It’s some notes he asked me to make for him in London this last spring.”

“But for mercy’s sake—­do you like to write things like that?” insisted Barton.

“Oh, no,” drawled little Eve Edgarton.  “But of course—­if I marry him,” she confided without the slightest flicker of emotion, “it’s what I’ll have to write—­all the rest of my life.”

“But—­” stammered Barton.  “For mercy’s sake, do you want to marry him?” he asked quite bluntly.

“Oh, no,” drawled little Eve Edgarton.

Impatiently Barton threw away his half-smoked cigarette and lighted a fresh one.  “Then why?” he demanded.

“Oh, it’s something Father invented,” said little Eve Edgarton.

Altogether emphatically Barton pushed back his chair.  “Well, I call it a shame!” he said.  “For a nice live little girl like you to be packed off like so much baggage—­to marry some great gray-bearded clout who hasn’t got an idea in his head except—­except—­” squintingly he stared down at the scattered sheets on the floor—­“except—­’Amphichelydia,’” he asserted with some feeling.

“Yes—­isn’t it?” sighed little Eve Edgarton.

“For Heaven’s sake!” said Barton.  “Where is Nunko-Nono?”

“Nunko-Nono?” whispered little Eve Edgarton.  “Where is it?  Why, it’s an island!  In an ocean, you know!  Rather a hot—­green island!  In rather a hot—­blue-green ocean!  Lots of green palms, you know, and rank, rough, green grass—­and green bugs—­and green butterflies—­and green snakes.  And a great crawling, crunching collar of white sand and hermit-crabs all around it.  And then just a long, unbroken line of turquoise-colored waves.  And then more turquoise-colored waves.  And then more turquoise-colored waves.  And then more turquoise-colored waves.  And then—­and then—­”

“And then what?” worried Barton.

With a vaguely astonished lift of the eyebrows little Eve Edgarton met both question and questioner perfectly squarely.  “Why—­then—­more turquoise-colored waves, of course,” chanted little Eve Edgarton.

“It sounds rotten to me,” confided Barton.

“It is,” said little Eve Edgarton.  “And, oh, I forgot to tell you:  John Ellbertson is—­sort of green, too.  Geologists are apt to be, don’t you think so?”

“I never saw one,” admitted Barton without shame.

“If you’d like me to,” said Eve, “I’ll show you how the turquoise-colored waves sound—­when they strike the hermit-crabs.”

“Do!” urged Barton.

Listlessly the girl pushed back into her pillows, slid down a little farther into her blankets, and closed her eyes.

“Mmmmmmmmm,” she began, “Mmm-mmmmmmm—­Mmmmm—­Mmmmmmm, W-h-i-s-h-h-h!  Mmmmmmmmm—­Mmmmmmmm—&sh
y;Mmmmmmmm—­Mmmmmm—­W-h-i-s-h-h-h!—­Mmmmmmmm—­Mmmmmmm—­”