Part 53 (2/2)

”Besides, a girl need not be transparent to conceal what she's doing.”

This observation seemed to end our postprandial and tripart.i.te conference; Miss Barrison retired to her stateroom presently; after a last cigar, smoked almost in silence, the young man and I bade each other a civil good-night and retired to our respective berths.

I think it was at Richmond, Virginia, that I was awakened by the negro porter shaking me very gently and repeating, in a pleasant, monotonous voice: ”Teleg'am foh you, suh! Teleg'am foh Mistuh Gilland, suh. 'Done call you 'lev'm times sense breakfa.s.s, suh! Las' call foh luncheon, suh. Teleg'am foh--”

”Heavens!” I muttered, sitting up in my bunk, ”is it as late as that!

Where are we?” I slid up the window-shade and sat blinking at a flood of suns.h.i.+ne.

”Telegram?” I said, yawning and rubbing my eyes. ”Let me have it. All right, I'll be out presently. Shut that curtain! I don't want the entire car to criticise my pink pajamas!”

”Ain' n.o.body in de cyar, 'scusin yo'se'f, suh,” grinned the porter, retiring.

I heard him, but did not comprehend, sitting there sleepily unfolding the scrawled telegram. Suddenly my eyes flew wide open; I scanned the despatch with stunned incredulity:

”ATLANTA, GEORGIA.

”We couldn't help it. Love at first sight. Married this morning in Atlanta. Wildly happy. Forgive. Wire blessing.

”(Signed) HAROLD KENSETT, ”HELEN BARRISON KENSETT.”

”Porter!” I shouted. ”Porter! Help!”

There was no response.

”Oh, Lord!” I groaned, and rolled over, burying my head in the blankets; for I understood at last that Science, the most jealous, most exacting of mistresses, could never brook a rival.

THE END

<script>