The butcher regarded him with pity, and sniffed: "I carry newspapers, not poultry." "Well, give me the----" he saw a pink weekly of rather picturesque appearance, and the adventure attracted him. "I'll take this--also the _Outlook_." He folded the pink within the green, and entered into a new and startling world--a sort of journalistic slumming tour. "Give me any old thing," said Mallory, and flung open an Ogden journal till he found the sporting page, where his eyes brightened. "By jove, a ten-inning game! Matthewson in the box!" "Mattie is most intelleckshal pitcher in the world," said Little Jimmie, and then everybody disappeared behind paper ramparts, while the butcher lingered to explain to the porter the details of the great event. About this time, Marjorie, tired of her pretence at slumber, strolled into the observation car, glancing into the men's room, where she saw nothing but newspapers. Then Mrs. Wellington saw her, and smiled: "Come in and make yourself at home." "Thanks," said Marjorie, bashfully, "I was looking for my--my----" "Husband?" "My dog." "How is he this morning?" "My dog?" "Your husband." "Oh, he's as well as could be expected." "Where did you get that love of a waist?" Mrs. Wellington laughed. "Mrs. Temple lent it to me. Isn't it sweet?" "Exquisite! The latest Ypsilanti mode." Marjorie, suffering almost more acutely from being badly frocked than from being duped in her matrimonial hopes, threw herself on Mrs. Wellington's mercy. "I'm so unhappy in this. Couldn't you lend me or sell me something a little smarter?" "I'd love to, my dear," said Mrs. Wellington, "but I left home on short notice myself. I shall need all my divorce trousseau in Reno. Otherwise--I--but here's your husband. You two ought to have some place to spoon. I'll leave you this whole room." And she swept out, nodding to Mallory, who had divined Marjorie's presence, and felt the need of being near her, though he also felt the need of finishing the story of the great ball game. Husband-like, he felt that he was conferring sufficient courtesy in throwing a casual smile across the top of the paper. Marjorie studied his motley garb, and her own, and groaned: "We're a sweet looking pair, aren't we?" "Mr. and Miss Fit," said Mallory, from behind the paper. "Oh, Harry, has your love grown cold?" she pleaded. "Marjorie, how can you think such a thing?" still from behind the paper. "Well, Mrs. Wellington said we ought to have some place to spoon, and she went away and left us, and--there you stand--and----" This pierced even the baseball news, and he threw his arms around her with glow of devotion. She snuggled closer, and cooed: "Aren't we having a nice long engagement? We've traveled a million miles, and the preacher isn't in sight yet. What have you been reading--wedding announcements?" "No--I was reading about the most wonderful exhibition. Mattie was in the box--and in perfect form." "Mattie?" Marjorie gasped uneasily.