“She’s like a snow peak,” said Roark. “I passed and looked longingly, but you should have seen the icy stare she handed me.”
“Yes, but when the train is crowded, as it is, she is not entitled to a whole seat,” responded Sanford. “You would be justified in scrouging in.”
“It is no question of my right,” said Roark, “but those frigid eyes took the nerve out of me. I think she’s been in cold storage.
“In beating about the country, old fellow, I have become somewhat of a physiognomist. The woman or man who holds an entire seat, in a crowded car, does so by force. Take the blonde there, why, you could not any more approach her than you could a bull dog nibbling on a bone.
“If I am one of many who occupy seats in a car and a stranger asks me if I will share with him I feel complimented. The person asked to share a seat with me, by me, should feel honored, for I do not sit down by any old scrub if I can avoid it, and I usually can. One day, not long ago, I saw a little girl on a car, unattended, go to a gentleman whom she had never seen before and take a seat by him. I did not know the man, but had admired his kind, gentle face, and the child had picked him as a safe companion.
“What a handsome compliment! I would give my fortune for that man’s countenance. Mark Twain is credited with saying that, in passing, a dog will lick the hand of an honest man, but will growl at a scoundrel.
“Instinct tells us.
“Of course, I should like to have that seat—any seat—but the young woman does not want to share it. I shall stand.”
The Shoofly was full to overflowing that day, but the blonde, with the wealth of hair, such as it was, and the drowsy look, traveled unmolested. Somewhere, while crossing the foothills, she lifted her feet to the seat, let her head down upon the aisle-arm, and slept. The engine blew, the wheels squeaked, and babies cried, but she knew it not; she was making up for lost time.
“She’s dead to the world now,” said Sanford joyfully.