“Oh, how shameless you are!” she cried. “Will nothing serve to arouse the better part of you?”
“There is no better part of any man than his love for a woman. You have aroused that.”
“Then prove it by going and building your railroad, Mr. Winton. When you have done that—”
He caught at the word as a drowning man catches at a straw.
“When I have won the fight—Virginia, let me see your eyes—when I have won, I may come back to you?”
“I didn't say anything of the kind! But I will say what I said to Mr. Adams. I like men who do things. Good night.” And before he could reply she had made him open the door for her, and he was left alone on the square-railed platform.
In the gathering-room of the private car Virginia found an atmosphere surcharged with electrical possibilities, felt it and inhaled it, though there was nothing visible to indicate it. The Rajah was buried in the depths of his particular easy-chair, puffing his cigar; Bessie had the Reverend Billy in the tete-a-tete contrivance; and Mrs. Carteret was reading under the Pintsch drop-light at the table.
It was the chaperon who applied the firing spark to the electrical possibilities.
“Didn't I hear you talking to some one out on the platform, Virginia?” she asked.
“Yes, it was Mr. Winton. He came to make his excuses.”