"Agatha, my dearest, you talk of my forgiving you. Can you ever forgive me?"
The train was slowing for a stop before they had settled that delicate question. Agatha argued that it was preposterous to talk of forgiving one who in every relation of life was absolute perfection. Forbes insisted that her attitude proved her an angel. The baby, with a discretion beyond its years, refrained from offering any interruption to this absorbing conversation, though occasionally its toothless gums were revealed in what might have impressed the unprejudiced on-looker as a derisive smile.
After the brief stop, a train boy appeared shouting Forbes' name. He proved to be the bearer of a telegram from Warren. Forbes and Agatha read it together:
"If enough is left of you to make the marriage ceremony valid advise clenching matter at the first stop run no risk of letting her get away from us again."
"Warren seems to be laboring under the impression," frowned Forbes, "that he comes in on this. Except for that slight error—"
Agatha interpolated irrelevantly that Warren was a dear.
"He's not half bad," Forbes admitted generously. "And apart from his erroneous impression that this is a partnership affair, the message impresses me favorably. What do you think?"
"How do you know," questioned Agatha interestedly, "that I'm not already married to a widower with four small children?"
"I'll own the thought crossed my mind. But I wouldn't consider it. You looked too sad for a bride."
Agatha put her hand into his quite shamelessly. "Of course I would look sad if I had been so silly as to marry somebody else."