Another hour passed. His heels were quite cool by this time, but his blood was boiling. This was a deuce of a way to treat a fellow who had gone to the trouble to come all the way out in a stuffy train, by Jove, it was! With considerable asperity he rang for a servant and commanded him to fetch a time table, and to be quick about it, as there might be a train leaving before he could get back if it took him as long to find it as it took other people to remember their obligations! His sarcasm failed to impress Murray, who said he thought there was a schedule in Mrs. Wrandall's room, and he'd get it as soon as the way was clear, if Mr. Wrandall didn't mind waiting.
"If I minded waiting," snapped Leslie, "I wouldn't be here now."
"It's the thing most people object to in the country, sir," said Murray consolingly. "Waiting for trains, sir."
"And the sunset," added Mr. Wrandall pointedly, with a westward glare.
"We don't mind that, sir. We rather look forward to it. It means one day less of waiting for the trains." It was rather cryptic, but Leslie was too deeply absorbed in self-pity to take account of the pathos in Murray's philosophy.
"What time is it, Murray?"
"Five-twenty, Mr. Wrandall."
"That's all, Murray."
"Thank you, sir."
As the footman was leaving, Sara's automobile whirled up to the porte-cochere.