She fished out her Pullman ticket and showed it to a waiting porter, who motioned her down the train.
"The fourth car, lady," he said. "Car Number Four!"
"Car Four!" cried Bowles, setting down the suitcase with quite a dramatic start. "Why—why, isn't this remarkable, Miss Lee? To think that we should take the same train—on the same day—and then have the very same car! But, don't you know, you never finished that last story you were telling me—about the cowboy who went to the picnic—and now I shall demand the end of it. Really, Miss Lee, I enjoyed your tales immensely—but don't let me keep you waiting!"
He hurried on, still commenting upon the remarkable coincidence; and as a memory of the reception came back to her and she recalled the avid way in which this same young man had hung upon her words, a sudden doubt, a shrewd questioning, came over the mind of Dixie Lee. Back in Arizona, now, a man with any git-up-and-git to him might—but, pshaw, this was not Arizona! And he was not that kind of man! No, indeed! The idea of one of these New York Willies doing the sleuth act and tagging her to the train!
At the same time Dixie Lee had her misgivings about this correct young man, because she knew his name was not Bowles. More than that, his language displeased her, reminding her as it did of her long winter's penance among the culturines. Three days more of highbrow conversation would just about finish her off—she must be stern, very stern, if she would avert the impending disaster! So she stabbed her neatly-trimmed little sombrero with a hatpin and waited for Mr. Bowles.
"Lovely weather we've been having, isn't it?" he purled as he made bold to sit down beside her.
"Yes, indeed," she answered, showing her white teeth in a simpering smile. "Simply heavenly. Don't you know, it reminds me of those lines in Wordsworth—you remember—I think it was in his 'Idiot Boy.' Oh, how do they go?"
She knitted her brows and Mr. Bowles regarded her thoughtfully.
"Perhaps it was in his 'Lines Written in Early Spring,'" he suggested guardedly.
"No," she insisted. "It was in 'The Idiot Boy'—either that or in 'Lines Written to the Same Dog.' I forget which. Anyway, it told all about the rain, you know, and the clouds—and all that. Don't you remember? I thought you were full of Wordsworth."