“As you didn’t come to see me, I’ve come to see you,” was her next attempt.
Did he nod? Or had he made no motion at all?
“I’ve come to ask important questions about trains,” she pursued, a little aggrieved by his indifference to her presence.
No reply from the intent worker.
“And ‘tell sad stories of the death of kings,’” she quoted with a fairy chuckle. She thought that she saw a small contortion pass over his features, only to be banished at once. He had retired within the walls of that impassive and inscrutable reserve which minor railroad officials can at will erect between themselves and the lay public. Only the broken rhythms of the telegraph ticker relieved the silence and furnished the justification.
A little piqued but more amused, for she was far too confident of herself to feel snubbed, the girl waited smilingly. Presently she said in silken tones:
“When you’re quite through and can devote a little attention to insignificant me, I shall perhaps be sitting on the sunny corner of the platform, or perhaps I shall be gone forever.”
But she was not gone when, ten minutes later, Banneker came out. He looked tired.
“You know, you weren’t very polite to me,” she remarked, glancing at him slantwise as he stood before her.
If she expected apologies, she was disappointed, and perhaps thought none the less of him for his dereliction.