“My—my—friends are very plain, humble people—not at all in your set, Mr. Laurier.”
“No matter how humble, I would like to see you safely to them,” he said.
“It will not be necessary, I thank you. Mrs. de Vries has lent me the money for a cab, and I shall know where to go, as I have only been away from New York two years,” she replied quietly.
“You will at least allow me to see you safely on shore, and to find you a cab?”
“I shall be very grateful,” with a gentle smile.
After that, in the rush and confusion, he could say no more, but he stayed by her side and waited through all the excitement of the merry adieus, noting how popular she had become in the few days on the Scythia, so that every one wished to touch her hand and wish her a happy future. At last he was leading her down the gangplank, saying to her with a mournful attempt at cheerfulness that the fire on the Atlanta had saved them the bother of having their luggage examined and paying customhouse duties.
A cab was found much sooner than he desired, and he stood by it, holding her hand very tight, longing to never let it go.
“Are we never to meet again?” he asked mournfully, and she answered, very low:
“We must, I fear, for our social circles may one day be the same—but not yet—not until—after you—are—married!”
She almost gasped as she uttered the last words, and tottered into the taxi, sinking heavily into the seat.