"You're the same Katharine Normaine," he rejoined. "I thought you were, by the looks, and now I'm sure. You don't really know that I've ever had a case, but you make me feel that my name echoes through two worlds at the very least."
"And you are still Harry Donald, suspicious of the gifts that are tossed into your lap," and they both laughed.
"This is the man of the class," went on Judge Donald, turning to Ellis, who had taken a seat above them. "Your books have gotten out to Wisconsin, and that's fame enough for any man."
"Have they really?" said Arnold. "I supposed they only wrote notices of them in the papers."
"Oh, yes," murmured Miss Normaine. "Ellis has turned out clever,—one never knows."
"I guess they're good, too," went on Donald; "I tell 'em I used to think you wrote well in college."
"I thought I did, too," answered Arnold. "I don't believe we're either of us quite so sure I write well now."
They had delayed their steps to keep out of the crowd, for the people were leaving the train, some hurrying to catch other trains, some stopping to greet friends and acquaintances; there was a general rushing to and fro, the clamor of well-bred voices, the calling out of names in surprised accost, the frou-frou of gowns and the fragrance of flowers, in the bare and untidy station.
At last the party of which Miss Normaine was one left the car, and with the two men she made her way down the platform, through the midst of the hubbub, which waxed more insistent every moment.
"It is with a somewhat fevered anxiety that I am keeping my eye on Alice," she said.