“That is, we are both going to Mr. Harmon’s.”
“Free bus to Boulder Brook,” proclaimed the humorous native. “It’s jest as well there’s two of ye, though Mr. Tom didn’t say nothin’ about more’n one. Ye won’t rattle s’ much when we hit the rocks.”
“I joined the party at the last moment,” explained the impromptu bridegroom. “I’m for the Bungalow.”
“Ye’ll be there before ye know it. Twenty-one mile in twenty-eight minutes, comin’ over in the ole boat.”
Their cicerone led the way to “the ole boat,” a large, battered, comfortably purring car, tucked them in with many robes, and applied himself to the wheel with an absorption which left them free to resume their own concerns. The surrounding mountains were in full panoply of their blazing October foliage, a scene to enthrall the dullest vision. Notwithstanding, Mr. Remsen’s eyes kept straying from those splendors to the face of his companion. Attractive though this nearer view was, his own face wore the expression of one who painfully seeks the answer to an insoluble riddle. The girl answered his look with challenging mockery.
“Don’t overheat your poor brain about it,” she implored.
“He called you Miss Cole,” said Remsen, with furrowed brows.
“Why not, since it’s my name?”
“Cole? Cole!” ruminated her companion. “No. Positively no!”
“Positively, yes! Do you think it’s quite gallant in you to forget me entirely.”