"Then I'll jump off," Marjorie vowed, making a dash for the door.
But the porter filled the narrow path, and waved her back.
"Vestibule's done locked up—train's going lickety-split." Feeling that he had safely checkmated any rashness, the porter squeezed past the dumbfounded pair, and went to change his blue blouse for the white coat of his chambermaidenly duties. Mallory's first wondering thought was a rapturous feeling that circumstances had forced his dream into a reality. He thrilled with triumph: "You've got to go with me now."
"Yes—I've got to go," Marjorie assented meekly; then, sublimely, "It's fate. Kismet!"
They clutched each other again in a fiercely blissful hug. Marjorie came back to earth with a bump: "Are you really sure there's a minister on board?"
"Pretty sure," said Mallory, sobering a trifle.
"But you said you were sure?"
"Well, when you say you're sure, that means you're not quite sure."
It was not an entirely satisfactory justification, and Marjorie began to quake with alarm: "Suppose there shouldn't be?"
"Oh, then," Mallory answered carelessly, "there's bound to be one to-morrow."