Mr. Richards: “Oh, I was going to Albany.”
Miss Galbraith: “Well, don’t! Aunt Mary is expecting me here at Schenectady,—I telegraphed her,—and I want you to stop here, too, and we’ll refer the whole matter to her. She’s such a wise old head. I’m not sure”—
Mr. Richards: “What?”
Miss Galbraith, demurely: “That I’m good enough for you.”
Mr. Richards, starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought had struck him: “Lucy! how came you on this train when you left Syracuse on the morning express?”
Miss Galbraith, faintly: “I waited over a train at Utica.” She sinks into a chair, and averts her face.
Mr. Richards: “May I ask why?”
Miss Galbraith, more faintly still: “I don’t like to tell. I”—
Mr. Richards, coming and standing in front of her, with his hands in his pockets: “Look me in the eye, Lucy!” She drops her veil over her face, and looks up at him. “Did you—did you expect to find me on this train?”
Miss Galbraith: “I was afraid it never would get along,—it was so late!”