The clock ceased its torment.
“Have you plenty of money to get back—and all?”
“Yes.”
“Are you sure—because I could loan you some?”
He told her again, but the thought held a comradeship that gripped him. It happened that he was plentifully supplied; though he would have walked back rather than confess otherwise—a peculiar stupidity. The beaming of the old porter made the moment at the steps of the coach so fine, Morning found himself explaining:
“The lady is sailing from Baltimore in the morning. I’ve decided to go clear through to the pier.”
This was an extraordinary thing for him to explain.
They sat in silence until the train moved, and they could forget the snoring.... The coach grew colder, and Betty unpacked a steamer rug which they used for a lap-robe. Even the old darkey went to sleep after Wilmington.
“Letters—” she said at last. “I have been thinking about that.... There’s no way to tell where I am to be. I won’t know until London, where I am to meet my old master. Perhaps then I could tell you—but I daren’t think of letters and risk disappointment.... You must wait until I write you——”
Morning began to count the days, and she knew what was in his mind.