Again we proceeded upon our way.

I was glad to leave the baggageman.
This time the porter meant to take no chances.
"What train, boss ?" he asked.
"The Congressional Limited." "You got jus' four minutes." "Goodness!" cried Gray-eyes.
"I thought," said Violet-eyes as we accelerated our pace, "that you prided yourself on always having time to spare ?" "Usually I do," I answered, "but in this case--" "What car ?" the porter interrupted tactfully.
Again I felt for my tickets.

This time they were in my change pocket.

I can't imagine how I came to put them there.
"But in this case--_what_ ?" The violet eyes looked threatening as their owner put the question.
"Seat seven, car three," I told the porter firmly as we approached the gate.

Then, turning to my dangerous and lovely cross-examiner: "In this case I am unfortunate, for there is barely time to say good-by." There are several reasons why I don't believe in railway station kisses.
Kisses given in public are at best but skimpy little things, suggesting the swift peck of a robin at a peach, whereas it is truer of kissing than of many other forms of industry that what is worth doing at all is worth doing well.