"Put down the amount and sign here," the baggageman directed, pushing a slip toward me and placing a pencil in my hand. I obeyed. The baggageman took the slip and went off to a little desk. I judged that he had finished with me for the moment. "But don't you think," my fair inquisitor continued, "that the southern girls pile on the accent awfully, because they know it pleases men?" "Perhaps," I said. "But then, what better reason could they have for doing so?" "Listen to that!" she cried to her companion. "Did you ever hear such egotism?" "He's nothing but a man," said Gray-eyes scornfully. "I wouldn't be a man for--" "A dollar and eighty-five cents," declared the baggageman. I paid him. "I wouldn't be a man for anything!" my fair friend finished as we started to move off. "I wouldn't have you one," I told her, opening the concourse door. "_Hay!_" shouted the baggageman. "Here's your ticket and your checks!" I returned, took them, and put them in my pocket. 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. Yet I knew that one of these enchantresses expected to be kissed, and that the other very definitely didn't. Therefore I kissed them both. Then I bolted toward the gate. "Tickets!" demanded the gateman, stopping me. At last I found them in the inside pocket of my overcoat. I don't know how they got there. I never carry tickets in that pocket. As the train began to move I looked at my watch and, discovering it to be three minutes fast, set it right. That is the sort of train the Congressional Limited is. A moment later we were roaring through the blackness of the Hudson River tunnel.