Mr. Somerville Darrah awoke out of his tobacco reverie with a start.
“Hah!” he said fiercely. Then, in his most courteous phrase: “Did I undehstand you to say that Misteh Winton would not faveh us to-night, my deah Virginia?”
“He could not. He has come upon—upon some other difficulty, I believe,” she stammered, steering a perilous course among the rocks of equivocation.
“Mmph!” said the Rajah, rising. “Ah—where is Jastrow?”
The obsequious one appeared, imp-like, at the mention of his name, and received a curt order.
“Go and find Engineer McGrath and his fireman. Tell him I want the engine instantly. Move, seh!”
Virginia retreated to her state-room. In a few minutes she heard her uncle go out; and shortly afterward the Rosemary's engine shook itself free of the car and rumbled away westward. At that, Virginia went back to the others and found a book. But if waiting inactive were difficult, reading was blankly impossible.
“Goodness!” she exclaimed impatiently at last. “How hot you people keep it in here! Cousin Billy, won't you take a turn with me on the station platform? I can't breathe!”
Calvert acquiesced eagerly, scenting an opportunity. But when they were out under the frosty stars he had the good sense to walk her up and down in the healing silence and darkness for five full minutes before he ventured to say what was in his mind.
When he spoke it was earnestly and to the purpose, not without eloquence. He loved her; had always loved her, he thought. Could she not, with time and the will to try, learn to love him?—not as a cousin?