"What time d'you say we get to Reno?"
"Mawnin' of the fo'th day, sah."
"Well, call me just before we roll in."
And he rolled in. His last words floated down the aisle and met Mrs. Little Jimmie Wellington just returning from the Women's Room, where she had sought nepenthe in more than one of her exquisite little cigars. The familiar voice, familiarly bibulous, smote her ear with amazement. She beckoned the porter to her anxiously.
"Porter! Porter! Do you know the name of the man who just hurried in?"
"No'm," said the porter. "I reckon he's so broken up he ain't got any name left."
"It couldn't be," Mrs. Jimmie mused.
"Things can be sometimes," said the porter.
"You may make up my berth now," said Mrs. Wellington, forgetting that Anne Gattle was still there. Mrs. Wellington hastened to apologize, and begged her to stay, but the spinster wanted to be far away from the disturbing atmosphere of divorce. She was dreaming already with her eyes open, and she sank into number six in a lotus-eater's reverie.
Mrs. Wellington gathered certain things together and took up her handbag, to return to the Women's Room, just as Mrs. Whitcomb came forth from the curtains of her own berth, where she had made certain preliminaries to disrobing, and put on a light, decidedly negligée negligée.