"If you really loved me, you'd——"
"Oh, I know," he cut in. "You've said that before. But I'd be court-martialled. I'd lose my career."
"What's a career to a man who truly loves?"
"It's just as much as it is to anybody else—and more."
She could hardly controvert this gracefully, so she sank back with grim resignation. "Well, I've proposed my plan, and you don't like it. Now, suppose you propose something."
The silence was oppressive. They sat like stoughton bottles. There the conductor found them some time later. He gave them a careless look, selected a chair at the end of the car, and began to sort his tickets, spreading them out on another chair, making notes with the pencil he took from atop his ear, and shoved back from time to time.
Ages seemed to pass, and Mallory had not even a suggestion. By this time Marjorie's temper had evaporated, and when he said: "If we could only stop at some town for half an hour," she said: "Maybe the conductor would hold the train for us."
"I hardly think he would."
"He looks like an awfully nice man. You ask him."
"Oh, what's the use?"