“How very absent-minded Mr. Winton seems to be this evening!” murmured Bessie from her niche between Adams and the Reverend Billy at the farther end of the table. “He isn't quite at his best, is he, Mr. Adams?”
“No, indeed,” said Adams, matching her undertone, “very far from it. He has been a bit off all day: touch of mountain fever, I'm afraid.”
“But he doesn't look at all ill,” objected Miss Bessie. “I should say he is a perfect picture of rude health.”
The coffee was served, and Mrs. Carteret was rising. Whereupon Miss Virginia handed her cup to Adams, and so had him for her companion in the tete-a-tete chair, leaving Winton to shift for himself.
The shifting process carried him over to the Rajah and the Reverend Billy, to a small table in a corner of the compartment, and the enjoyment of a mild cigar.
Later, when Calvert had been eliminated by Miss Bessie, Winton looked to see the true inwardness of the dinner-bidding made manifest by his host.
But Mr. Darrah chatted on, affably noncommittal, and after a time Winton began to upbraid himself for suspecting the ulterior motive. And when he finally rose to excuse himself on a letter-writing plea, his leave-taking was that of the genial host reluctant to part company with his guest.
“I've enjoyed your conve'sation, seh; enjoyed it right much. May I hope you will faveh us often while we are neighbors?”
Winton rose, made the proper acknowledgments, and would have crossed the compartment to make his adieus to Mrs. Carteret. But at that moment Virginia came between.
“You are not going yet, are you, Mr. Winton? Don't hurry. If you are dying to smoke a pipe, as Mr. Adams says you are, we can go out on the platform. It isn't too cold, is it?”