Patsy had it on the end of her tongue to say she preferred smoking-cars, intending to duck simultaneously under the conductor's arm and enter, willy-nilly. But the words rolled no farther than the tongue's edge. She turned obediently back, re-entering the car and taking the first seat by the door. For this her memory was responsible. It had spun the day's events before her like a roulette wheel, stopping precisely at the remark of Marjorie Schuyler's concerning William Burgeman: "He's the most conventional young gentleman I ever saw in my life. Why, you would shock--" A strange young woman doling out consolation to him in a smoking-car would be anything but a dramatic success; Patsy felt this all too keenly. He was decidedly not of her world or the men and women she knew, who gave help when the need came regardless of time, place, acquaintanceship, or sex. "Faith, he's the kind that will expect an introduction first, and a month or two of tangoing, tea-drinking, and tennis-playing; after which, if I ask his permission, he might consider it proper--" Patsy groaned. "Oh, I hate the man already!" "Ticket!" "Ticket? What for?" "What for? Do you think this is a joy ride?" The conductor radiated sarcasm. Patsy crimsoned. "I haven't mine. I--I was to--meet my--aunt--who had the ticket--and--she must have missed the train." "Where are you going?" "I--I--Why, I was telling--My aunt had the tickets. How would I know where I was going without the tickets?" The conductor snorted. Patsy looked hard at him and knew the time had come for wits--good, sharp O'Connell wits. She smiled coaxingly. "It sounds so stupid, but, you see, I haven't an idea where I am going. I was to meet my aunt and go down with her to her summer place. I--I can't remember the name." Her mouth drooped for the fraction of a second, then she brightened all over. "I know what I can do--very probably she missed the train because she expects to be at the station to meet me--I can look out each time the train stops, and when I see her I can get off. That makes it all right, doesn't it?" And she smiled in open confidence as a sacrificial maiden might have propitiated the dragon. But it was not reciprocated. He eyed her scornfully. "And who pays for the ticket?" "Oh!" Patsy caught her breath; then she sent it bubbling forth in a contagious laugh. "I do--of course. I'll take a ticket to--just name over the stations, please?" The conductor growled them forth: "Hampden, Forestview, Hainsville, Dartmouth, Hudson, Arden, Brambleside, Mayberry, Greyfriars--" "What's that last--Greyfriars? I'll take a ticket to Greyfriars." She said it after the same fashion she might have used in ordering a mutton chop at a restaurant, and handed the conductor a bill. When he had given her the change and passed on, still disgruntled, Patsy allowed herself what she called a "temporary attack of private prostration."