So she was going to Beverly, too! He hoped she might be bound for the Christmas Eve frolic at the Austins'. It was perfectly possible—in fact, probable.
He was a young man whose optimism colored his personal wishes so vividly that sometimes what he desired became presently, in his imagination, a charming and delightful probability. And already his misgivings concerning the proper name of the next station had vanished. He wanted Beverly to be the next station, and already it was, for him. Also, he had quite made up his mind that she of the chinchillas was bound for the Austins'.
A cynical blast from the locomotive; a jerking pull of brakes, and, from the forward smoker, entered the fat conductor.
"Beverly! Beverly!" he shouted.
So he, too, had managed to master his P's and B's, concluded the young man, smiling to himself as he rose, invested himself with his heavy coat, and picked up his suit-case.
The young lady of the chinchillas had already left the car, followed by her maid, before he stepped into the aisle ready for departure.
A shadow of misgiving fell upon him when, glancing politely at his fellow-passenger, he encountered only a huge sneer, and concluded that the nod of courtesy was superfluous.
Also he hesitated as he passed the fat conductor, who was glaring at him, mouth agape—hesitated a moment only, then, realizing the dreadful possibilities of reopening the subject, swallowed his question in silence.
"It's got to be Beverly, now," he thought, making his way to the snowy platform and looking about him for some sign of a conveyance which might be destined for him. There were several sleighs and depot-wagons there—a number of footmen bustling about in furs.