"She is not hungry," she objected, "and she is very--well, I know
she wouldn't come. Do you suppose we could make it if we run?"

"I haven't any idea," I said cheerfully. "Any old train would be
better than this one, if it does leave us behind."

"Yes. Any train would be better than this one," she repeated
gravely. I found myself watching her changing expression. I had
spoken two dozen words to her and already I felt that I knew the
lights and shades in her voice,--I, who had always known how a
woman rode to hounds, and who never could have told the color of
her hair.

I stepped down on the ties and turned to assist her, and together
we walked back to where the conductor and the porter from our car
were in close conversation. Instinctively my hand went to my
cigarette pocket and came out empty. She saw the gesture.

"If you want to smoke, you may," she said. "I have a big cousin
who smokes all the time. He says I am 'kippered.'"

I drew out the gun-metal cigarette case and opened it. But this
most commonplace action had an extraordinary result: the girl
beside me stopped dead still and stood staring at it with fascinated
eyes.

"Is--where did you get that?" she demanded, with a catch in her
voice; her gaze still fixed on the cigarette case.

"Then you haven't heard the rest of the tragedy?" I asked, holding