Mr. Holiday had seen her from the extreme end of the car, and by the time he was opposite to where she sat it became necessary for him to have an answer to the questions that had presented themselves about her. Without any awkward preliminaries, he bent over and said:
"I've been wondering, ma'am, if you are dressed in black for your father or your husband."
She looked up, recognized the famous eccentric, and smiled.
"Won't you sit down, Mr. Holiday?" she said, and made room for him.
"I wear black," she said, when he had seated himself, "not because I am in mourning for anybody, but because I think it's becoming to me. You see, I have very light-colored hair."
"Does all that hair grow on your head?" Mr. Holiday asked, simply and without offence.
"Every bit of it," she said.
"I have a splendid head of hair, too," he commented. "But there's a young man in the car back of this who'll be twenty-two years of age in February, and he's got more dandruff than hair. Where are you going?"
"Cleveland."
"Is that your home?"