With Bag and Baggage
A smile hovered for a moment around the corners of her mouth, then disappeared.
"Then, too," he went on, "as you were the only woman who got off the train, and we were expecting you, I took the liberty of speaking to you."
"Did you ask the man to have my trunk sent up?"
"Trunk!" echoed Alden, helplessly. "Why, no! Was there a trunk?"
She laughed—a little, low rippling laugh that had in it an undertone of sadness. There was a peculiar, throaty quality in her voice, like a muted violin or 'cello. "Don't be so frightened, please, for I'm not going to stay long, really. I'm merely the sort of woman who can't stay over night anywhere without a lot of baggage."
"It—it wasn't that," he murmured.
"Yes, it was. You don't need to tell me polite fibs, you know. How far are we from the house?"
"Not as far," returned Alden, rallying all his forces for one supreme effort of gallantry, "as I wish we were."
She laughed again, began to speak, then relapsed into silence. Furtively, in the gathering shadow, he studied her face. She was pale and cold, the delicate lines of her profile conveyed a certain aloofness of spirit, and her mouth drooped at the corners. Her hat and veil covered her hair, but she had brown eyes with long lashes. Very long lashes, Alden noted, having looked at them a second time to make sure.