"Then, we'll have to quarrel, darling." He yielded, for lack of a better idea: "All right, beloved. How shall we begin?" On close approach, the idea did seem rather impossible to her. "How could I ever quarrel with you, my love?" she cooed. He gazed at her with a rush of lovely tenderness: "And how could I ever speak crossly to you?" "We never shall have a harsh word, shall we?" she resolved. "Never!" he seconded. So that resolution passed the House unanimously. They held hands in luxury a while, then she began again: "Still, we must pretend. You start it, love." "No, you start it," he pleaded. "You ought to," she beamed. "You got me into this mess." The word slipped out. Mallory started: "Mess! How is it my fault? Good Lord, are you going to begin chucking it up?" "Well, you must admit, darling," Marjorie urged, "that you've bungled everything pretty badly." It was so undeniable that he could only groan: "And I suppose I'll hear of this till my dying day, dearest." Marjorie had a little temper all her own. So she defended it: "If you are so afraid of my temper, love, perhaps you'd better call it all off before it's too late." "I didn't say anything about your temper, sweetheart," Mallory insisted. "You did, too, honey. You said I'd chuck this up till your dying day. As if I had such a disposition! You can stay here." She rose to her feet. He pressed her back with a decisive motion, and demanded: "Where are you going?" "Up in the baggage car with Snoozleums," she sniffled. "He's the only one that doesn't find fault with me." Mallory was stung to action by this crisis: "Wait," he said. He leaned out and motioned down the alley. "Porter! Wait a moment, darling. Porter!" The porter arrived with a half-folded blanket in his hands, and his usual, "Yassah!" Beckoning him closer, Mallory mumbled in a low tone: "Is there an extra berth on this car?" The porter's eyes seemed to rebuke his ears. "Does you want this upper made up?" "No--of course not." "Ex--excuse me, I thought----" "Don't you dare to think!" Mallory thundered. "Isn't there another lower berth?" The porter breathed hard, and gave this bridal couple up as a riddle that followed no known rules. He went to find the sleeping car conductor, and returned with the information that the diagram showed nobody assigned to number three. "Then I'll take number three," said Mallory, poking money at the porter. And still the porter could not understand. "Now, lemme onderstan' you-all," he stammered. "Does you both move over to numba three, or does yo'--yo' lady remain heah, while jest you preambulates?" "Just I preambulate, you black hound!" Mallory answered, in a threatening tone. The porter could understand that, at least, and he bristled away with a meek: "Yassah. Numba three is yours, sah." The troubled features of the baffled porter cleared up as by magic when he arrived at number three, for there he found his tyrant and tormentor, the English invader.