“Yes, indeed! You bet!”
“May I ask the name of the happy man?” inquired Harcourt, with a smile.
“What happy man?”
“The lucky fellow you are going to marry.”
“Oh, I don’t know yet. But somebody, you may bet your life on that.” And having expressed this excellent resolution, Owlet fell to eating her luncheon with a concentration of attention that precluded the possibility of further conversation for the present.
Harcourt’s appetite had vanished. He could eat but little, and that little in a merely perfunctory manner, to keep his physical strength from utterly failing.
Passengers returned to their seats. New people got in. Some strangers took their places immediately behind Harcourt and his little companion, so that if either the man or the child had felt inclined to renew their discourse they could not have carried it on confidentially. But, in fact, neither wished to talk. Harcourt was buried in gloomy thought, and Owlet was heavy with drowsiness, like any other tired young animal after a hearty meal, so she curled herself up on her seat and shut her eyes.
The train soon started again, and rushed onward toward its southern destination.
The rapid motion, with the total absence of conversation, soon lulled the child to sleep.
The remainder of the journey passed without incident.