"Do we dare?"
"We might call it luncheon," she suggested.
He seized the chance: "All right, I'll go ahead and order, and you stroll in and I'll offer you the seat opposite me."
"But can't you hook me up?"
He was adamant: "Not till we get to California. Do you think I want to compromise my own wife? Shh! Somebody's coming!" And he darted off to the vestibule just as Mrs. Jimmie Wellington issued from number ten with hair askew, eyes only half open, and waist only half shut at the back. She made a quick spurt to the women's room, found it locked, stamped her foot, swore under her breath, and leaned against the wall of the car to wait.
About the same time, the man who was still her husband according to the law, rolled out of berth number two. There was an amazing clarity to his vision. He lurched as he made his way to the men's room, but it was plainly the train's swerve and not an inner lurch that twisted the forthright of his progress.
He squeezed into the men's room like a whole crowd at once, and sang out, "Good morning, all!" with a wonderful heartiness. Then he paused over a wash basin, rubbed his hands gleefully and proclaimed, like another Chantecler advertising a new day:
"Well—I'm sober again!"
"Three cheers for you," said his rival in radiance, bridegroom Lathrop.
"How does it feel?" demanded Ashton, smiling so broadly that he encountered the lather on his brush.