Roberts: “I don’t know. I’m afraid I’d better. I must. How would you introduce the matter, Willis?”
Campbell: “Oh, I wouldn’t undertake to say! I must leave that entirely to you.”
Roberts: “Do you think I’d better go at it boldly, and ask her if she’s the one; or—or—approach it more gradually?”
Campbell: “With a few remarks about the weather, or the last novel, or a little society gossip? Oh, decidedly.”
Roberts: “Oh, come, now, Willis! What would you advise? You must see it’s very embarrassing.”
Campbell: “Not the least embarrassing. Simplest thing in the world!”
The Colored Man who calls the Trains, coming and going as before: “Cars for Newton, Newtonville, West Newton, Auburndale, Riverside, Wellesley Hills, Wellesley, Natick, and South Framingham. Express to Newton. Track No. 5.”
Campbell: “Ah, she’s off! She’s going to take the wrong train. She’s gathering her traps together, Roberts!”
Roberts: “I’ll go and speak to her.” He makes a sudden dash for the woman in the corner. Campbell takes up his magazine, and watches him over the top of it, as he stops before the woman, in a confidential attitude. In a moment she rises, and with a dumb show of offence gathers up her belongings and marches past Roberts to the door, with an angry glance backward at him over her shoulder. He returns crestfallen to Campbell.
Campbell, looking up from his magazine, in affected surprise: “Where’s your cook? You don’t mean to say she was the wrong woman?”