“Well, I know what I’m going to say, right now. You’ll probably be mad at me.”
“What is it?”
“I think you’re a darned good sport.”
“Why? You don’t know. You don’t know anything about me at all.”
“Sure I do. I’m not dumb. I’ve been watching you all day and I guess I can tell as well as the next one. Do you know what I think about you?”
“How should I?”
“I think probably you’re awfully nice.” Put your hand over hers. “I know you are. You’re all excited, aren’t you?”
“What makes you say that?”
“You’re shaking. What’s the matter? Scared of me?” Your hand tightens.
“Oh, no.” She is annoyed with herself. It’s hard on the nerves, sitting in a train all day. Almost time to go to bed, she thinks—the porter has started at the other end of the car; his head is immersed in the upper berth in the corner.