“Good-morning,” he said.
She made no return to his accost other than a slow smile. “I thought you were a dream,” she murmured.
“No. I’m real enough. Are you better? Your head?”
She put a hand to the bandage. “It’s sore. Otherwise I’m quite fit. I’ve slept like the dead.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” he replied mechanically. He was drinking her in, all the grace and loveliness and wonder of her, himself quite unconscious of the intensity of his gaze.
She accepted the mute tribute untroubled; but there was a suggestion of puzzlement in the frown which began to pucker her forehead.
“You’re really the station-agent?” she asked with a slight emphasis upon the adverb.
“Yes. Why not?”
“Nothing. No reason. Won’t you tell me what happened?”
“Come inside.” He held open the door against the wind.