Burton was silenced, but he was very far from being convinced, and he gave up the return project reluctantly, promising himself that he should have a very uncomfortable day of it.
In the meantime, the two young people in the observation-car were making hard work of it. A good many undiscussable happenings had intervened between their parting and their meeting, and these interfered sadly with the march of a casual conversation. As usually befalls, it was the young woman who first rose superior to the embarrassments.
"I'm glad of this day," she said, frankly, when they had exhausted the scenery, the matchless morning, the crisp air, and half a dozen other commonplaces. "I enjoyed our trip down from Silver Plume a year ago so much, and it seemed the height of improbability to imagine that we'd ever repeat it. Did you think we ever should?"
"No, indeed," replied Brockway, truthfully; "but I have wished many times that we might. Once in awhile, when I was a boy, I used to get a day that was all my own—a day in which I could go where I pleased and do as I liked. Those days are all marked with white stones now, and I often envy the boy who had them."
"I think I can understand that."
"Can you? I didn't know little girls ever had such days."
"I've had a few, but I think they were never given me. They were usually stolen, and so were doubly precious."
Brockway laughed. "Suppose we call this a stolen day, and try to make it as much like the others as we can. Shall we?"
"It's a bargain," she said, impulsively.
"From this minute, I am any irresponsible age you please; and you—you are to do nothing whatever that you meant to do. Will you agree to that?"