Staniford did not listen; he had got out his railroad guide and was studying it. “No; there are only those two trains a day. The seven o'clock has gone; and the next starts at ten to-night. Great heavens! I could walk it sooner! Dunham,” he asked, “do you think I'd better telegraph?”
“What would you say?”
“Say that there's been a mistake; that a letter miscarried; that I'll be there in the morning; that—”
“Wouldn't that be taking her anxiety a little too much for granted?”
“Yes, that's true. Well, you've got your wits about you now, Dunham,” cried Staniford, with illogical bitterness. “Very probably,” he added, gloomily, “she doesn't care anything for me, after all.”
“That's a good frame of mind to go in,” said Dunham.
“Why is it?” demanded Staniford. “Did I ever presume upon any supposed interest in her?”
“You did at first,” replied Dunham.
Staniford flushed angrily. But you cannot quarrel with a man lying helpless on his back; besides, what Dunham said was true.
The arrangements for Staniford's journey were quickly made,—so quickly that when he had seen the doctor, and had been down to the Aroostook and engaged Captain Jenness to come and take his place with Dunham for the next two nights, he had twelve hours on his hands before the train for Venice would leave, and he started at last with but one clear perception,—that at the soonest it must be twelve hours more before he could see her.