"It seems so strange that you should know my mother," she continued evidently feeling curious.
Mark smiled.
"You will know in time," he said. "If we were alone I would tell you now."
Here there was a stop at some station, and a shabby and dirty-looking man entered the car. There was but one seat vacant, the one next to Florence Loring.
Mark hastily rose and sat down in it.
"I thought," he said apologetically, "you might prefer me to the man who has just entered the car."
"By all means," she answered with a bright smile. "I prefer you also to the clerical gentleman who rode with me earlier."
"Thank you. When your niece joins you I will vacate the seat in her favor."
Florence Loring was perhaps nineteen, three years older than Mark. She looked upon him quite as a boy, and therefore felt under no constraint.
"Do you come from New York?" she asked.