After that, if a vicar in full uniform had marched down the aisle heading a procession of choir-boys, Mallory would have suspected him. He vowed in his haste that Marjorie might die an old maid before he would approach anybody else on that subject. Nebraska would have been a nice long state for a honeymoon, but its four hundred-odd miles were a dreary length for the couple so near and yet so far. The railroad clinging to the meandering Platte made the way far longer, and Mallory and Marjorie felt like Pyramus and Thisbe wandering along an eternal wall, through which they could see, but not reach, one another. They dined together as dolefully as if they had been married for forty years. Then the slow twilight soaked them in its melancholy. The porter lighted up the car, and the angels lighted up the stars, but nothing lighted up their hopes. "We've got to quarrel again, my beloved," Mallory groaned to Marjorie. Somehow they were too dreary even to nag one another with an outburst for the benefit of the eager-eyed passengers. A little excitement bestirred them as they realized that they were confronted with another night-robeless night and a morrow without change of gear. "What a pity that we left our things in the taxicab," Marjorie sighed. And this time she said, "we left them," instead of "you left them." It was very gracious of her, but Mallory did not acknowledge the courtesy. Instead he gave a start and a gasp: "Good Lord, Marjorie, we never paid the second taxicab!" "Great heavens, how shall we ever pay him? He's been waiting there twenty-four hours. How much do you suppose we owe him?" "About a year of my pay, I guess." "You must send him a telegram of apology and ask him to read his meter. He was such a nice man--the kindest eyes--for a chauffeur." "But how can I telegraph him? I don't know his name, or his number, or his company, or anything." "It's too bad. He'll go through life hating us and thinking we cheated him." "Well, he doesn't know our names either." And then they forgot him temporarily for the more immediate need of clothes. All the passengers knew that they had left behind what baggage they had not sent ahead, and much sympathy had been expressed. But most people would rather give you their sympathy than lend you their clothes. Mallory did not mind the men, but Marjorie dreaded the women. She was afraid of all of them but Mrs. Temple. She threw herself on the little lady's mercy and was asked to help herself. She borrowed a nightgown of extraordinary simplicity, a shirt waist of an ancient mode, and a number of other things. If there had been anyone there to see she would have made a most anachronistic bride. Mallory canvassed the men and obtained a shockingly purple shirt from Wedgewood, who meant to put him at his ease, but somehow failed when he said in answer to Mallory's thanks: