“And it seems to me for always. Do you think time has anything to do with feelings of intimacy?”
“Oh, yes. There is the summer-time intimacy which the cool weather and return to town put an end to.” She leaned past him with regained composure, looking down the cinder-strewn tracks, over the shining rails of which heat devils shimmered upward.
“You are thinking of the summer girl and her beaux,” he said, softly. “I wasn’t.”
“Neither was I.”
“Tell me about your cousin,” he asked, demurely. “Isn’t it strange that you and Peggie should both have cousins?”
“My cousin is a very nice man. He is not a bit like you.” Then her audacity wavered. “He is very blond. Is the train late?”
“I hope so.”
“I hope not.”
It was not, and in a minute more it rolled in, distractingly long and overflowing with eager passengers.
“How shall I ever find him?” Jacqueline cried, in dismay. “He may be already out of a dozen cars and lost in the mob, and he doesn’t know the way.”