“Why, you passed me in the aisle with your luggage. Don't you remember?”
Did he remember! His heart almost turned over with the joy of knowing that she had really noticed and remembered him. Involuntarily his glad fingers closed down upon the gloved hand that lay beneath them.
“I believe I do remember, now that you speak of it,” he said, in a stifled voice. “You were standing at a window?”
“Yes; and I saw you kissing those ladies goodby, too. Was one of them your wife, or were they all your sisters? I have wondered.”
“They—they were—cousins,” he informed her, confusedly, recalling an incident that had been forgotten. He had kissed Mary Lyons and Edna Burrage—but their brothers were present. “A foolish habit, isn't it?”
“I do not know. I have no grown cousins,” she replied, demurely. “You Americans have such funny customs, though. Where I live, no gentleman would think of pressing a lady's hand until it pained her. Is it necessary?” In the question there was a quiet dignity, half submerged in scorn, so pointed, so unmistakable that he flushed, turned cold with mortification, and hastily removed the amorous fingers.
“I crave your pardon. It is such a strain to hold myself and you against the rolling of this wagon that I unconsciously gripped your hand harder than I knew. You—you will not misunderstand my motive?” he begged, fearful lest he had offended her by his ruthlessness.
“I could not misunderstand something that does not exist,” she said, simply, proudly.
“By Jove, she's beyond comparison!” he thought.
“You have explained, and I am sorry I spoke as I did. I shall not again forget how much I owe you.”