"Rexford? Who's he?"
"He's from Pittsburg," she said, looking away.
He studied the back of her head for a moment. "Oh, I see," he said, with a dry laugh.
She faced him. "You are very much mistaken," she said.
Bellows threw back the curtains and a group of very lively persons came crowding into the room.
"Hello, Buzzy!" shouted three or four of the men. They had dined beautifully. For that matter, so had the ladies. They surrounded him and assaulted him verbally. You could have heard them laugh as far down as 35th Street, if you had been there. (Of course you were not, it being such a wretched night.)
Bosworth grinned amiably under the volley of chaff they fired at him. He observed that Miss Downing effaced herself. She retired alone to the group of dummies. He was not long in wishing that he could be with her in that region of peace and rectitude.
"Where's the groom?" he managed to ask, after ten or twelve voices had expended themselves in levity—not any of which appealed to his stricken bump of humor.
"De Foe? He's changing," said one of the men. "They're leaving for Boston to-night."
"Say, Buzzy, what do you think of the waxies?" cried another. "Have you seen 'em yet?"