"I'll just glance at the name of the station to be sure," he thought to himself, peering up through the thickly descending snow where the name of the station ought to be. And, as he stepped out to get a good view, he backed into a fur-robed footman, who touched his hat in hasty apology.
"Oh, Bailey! Is that you?" said Seabury, relieved to encounter one of Mrs. Austin's men.
"Yes, sir. Mr. Seabury, sir! Were you expected——?"
"Certainly," nodded the young man gayly, abandoning his suit-case to the footman and following him to a big depot-sleigh.
And there, sure enough, was his lady of the chinchillas, nestling under the robes to her pretty chin, and her maid on the box with the coachman—a strangely fat coachman—no doubt a new one to replace old Martin.
When Seabury came up the young lady turned and looked at him, and he took off his hat politely, and she acknowledged his presence very gravely and he seated himself decorously, and the footman swung to the rumble.
Then the chiming silver sleigh-bells rang out through the snow, the magnificent pair of plumed horses swung around the circle under the bleared lights of the station and away they speeded into snowy darkness.
A decent interval of silence elapsed before he considered himself at liberty to use a traveller's privilege. Then he said something sufficiently commonplace to permit her the choice of conversing or remaining silent. She hesitated; she had never been particularly wedded to silence. Besides, she was scarcely twenty—much too young to be wedded to anything. So she said something, with perfect composure, which left the choice to him. And his choice was obvious.
"I have no idea how far it is; have you?" he asked.
"Yes," she said coolly.