“It went through,” admitted Burns. “It had to, you know. And I had a thing to make last evening.” “Arthur told us about it,” chattered Pauline. “It was like a sna--” “You didn't miss my not coming over,” said Burns. He was leaning forward, his hands on his knees, his rumpled head near enough so that very low tones could reach the person to whom he spoke. He did not once look at Pauline. One would have thought that that fact alone would have quieted her, but it did not. “Indeed we did--awfully!” cried Pauline. “Neither did I myself, then, Mrs. Lessing. I miss it now. I shall miss it more whenever I think about it. I don't know of but one thing that can possibly make it up to me.” “Name it! You don't deserve it, but our hearts are rather tender, and we might grant--” Pauline looked arch. But what was the use? Nobody saw. Even the passengers were watching the one in gray. Spectators always watch the woman at whom the man is looking. And in this case it seemed well worth while, for even the most admirable reserve of manner could not control the tell-tale colour which was slowly mounting under the direct and continued gaze of the man with the red hair. The man himself, it occurred to more than one passenger, was rather well worth study. “It's always been a theory of mine that no woman can know a man until she's exchanged letters with him for a considerable period of time--say, a winter,” Burns went on. Pauline, made some sort of an exclamation, but he failed to notice it--“Neither can a man know a woman. It's a stimulating experience. Suppose we try it?” “How often do you propose to write to us?” inquired Pauline. Now, at last, Red Pepper Burns looked at her. If she had known him better, she would have known that all his vows to keep his tongue from certain words were at that moment very nearly as written in water. But the look he gave her stung her for an instant into silence. “I shall want to hear about Bob,” Ellen replied, “all you can tell me. I have promised to write to him. You will have to read the letters aloud to him--which will give you a very fair idea of what I am doing. But if you care for an extra sheet for yourself--now and then--” “An extra sheet! When I am in the mood I am likely to write a dozen sheets to you. When I'm not, a page will be all you'll care to read. Will you agree to the most erratic correspondence you ever had, with the most erratic fellow?” “It sounds very promising,” she answered, smiling. The train drew into the city station. The stop was a short one, for the Limited was late. In the rush of outgoing and incoming passengers Burns managed, for the space of sixty seconds, to get out of range of Pauline's ears. “I shall count the hours till I get that first letter,” said he. She looked up. “You surely don't expect a letter till you have sent one?” He laughed. “I'm going home to begin to write it now,” he said.