"And you'll come often? Every week?" she urged.
"You'll see me spending the new parlor wall-paper for railroad fares!" he promised.
"Just as well. I don't want wall-paper there, anyway!"
When the expressman had come and gone, she locked the door of the bungalow for the last time, with a sense of efficient accomplishment.
"Now!" she said, "We'll play until time for the very latest train for San Francisco."
Their delight in each other seemed all the brighter for the temporary disagreement, like sunshine after a foggy morning. Her heart ached when the evening ended and he had to put her on the train.
"I'll be glad when I'm not saying good-by to you all the time!" he told her almost fiercely.
"Oh, so will I!"
She sprang lightly up the car steps, seeing too late his effort to help her, and regret increased the warmth of her thanks while he settled her bags in the rack, hung up her coat, adjusted the footstool for her. These unaccustomed services embarrassed her a little. She was aware of awkwardness in accepting them, but for a little while longer they kept him near her.
He lingered until the last minute, leaning over the red plush seat, jostled by incoming passengers, gazing at her with eyes that said more than lips or hands dared express under the harsh lights and glances of passengers.