"I had a drawing-room," said the young man, "but at the last minute I had to give it up to a lady."
Mr. Holiday's eyes twinkled with benign interest. He had connected the gardenia in the young man's coat with the roses of the girl who was weeping.
"I know," he said, "drawing-room, Car 5. She was crying, but I told her to brace up, and I guess she's stopped."
The young man jumped to his feet.
"Oh!" he said.
Mr. Holiday chuckled.
"I was right," he said. "I've been right seven times out of the ten for twenty-five years. I've kept a record."
Upon an impulse the young man checked his headlong inclination to rush to the girl who was weeping.
"If you are right as often as that," he said, "for God's sake tell me what to do."
"Certainly," said Mr. Holiday, "and it won't cost you a cent. What's the matter?"