Then, while Miss Asheton stood painfully impersonating the aurora borealis, the Honorable Alexander Hamilton Burrow astounded her with these composed words: “I am sure you gentlemen are both very kind, but if you will pardon me a moment I will consult with—er—with my wife.”
Since the space of the hotel office was limited in scope to something like ten by twenty feet, partly preëmpted by a cigar-counter, the two drummers exchanged glances and rose, with innate delicacy, disappearing into the street. Mine host, prompted by the same latent courtesy, disappeared up the stairs.
Then Miss Asheton turned a whitely angry face on the Honorable Alexander. She could hardly have confronted him more belligerently had she really been his spouse.
“How dared you!”
“My dear young lady,” expostulated Mr. Burrow humbly, “you don’t know Jaffa Junction. You arrive unchaperoned. If I had corrected our Calvinistic host, he would have turned us both out like pariahs.”
“Will you please drive me to Mercerville?”
“Certainly. Direct or—via the County Judge’s?”
“Direct—and fast!” said Miss Asheton with decision.
“Please consider,” urged the Honorable Alexander. “It is now past midnight. Mercerville is ten hours away either by motor or train. It will be a trifle difficult to explain to aunty.”
“It will be a trifle difficult in any event,” sighed Miss Asheton.