_Mr. Richards_, starting, in burlesque of her movement, as if a thought had struck _him_: “Lucy! how came you on this train when you left Syracuse on the morning express?” _Miss Galbraith_, faintly: “I waited over a train at Utica.” She sinks into a chair, and averts her face. _Mr. Richards_: “May I ask why?” _Miss Galbraith_, more faintly still: “I don’t like to tell. I”— _Mr. Richards_, coming and standing in front of her, with his hands in his pockets: “Look me in the eye, Lucy!” She drops her veil over her face, and looks up at him. “Did you—did you expect to find _me_ on this train?” _Miss Galbraith_: “I was afraid it never _would_ get along,—it was so late!” _Mr. Richards_: “Don’t—tergiversate.” _Miss Galbraith_: “Don’t _what_?” _Mr. Richards_: “Fib.” _Miss Galbraith_: “Not for worlds!” _Mr. Richards_: “How did you know I was in this car?” _Miss Galbraith_: “Must I? I thought I saw you through the window; and then I made sure it was you when I went to pin my veil on,—I saw you in the mirror.” _Mr. Richards_, after a little silence: “Miss Galbraith, do you want to know what _you_ are?” _Miss Galbraith_, softly: “Yes, Allen.” _Mr. Richards_: “You’re a humbug!” _Miss Galbraith_, springing from her seat, and confronting him. “So are you! You pretended to be asleep!” _Mr. Richards_: “I—I—I was taken by surprise. I had to take time to think.” _Miss Galbraith_: “So did I.” _Mr. Richards_: “And you thought it would be a good plan to get your polonaise caught in the window?” _Miss Galbraith_, hiding her face on his shoulder: “No, no, Allen! That I never _will_ admit. _No_ woman would!” _Mr. Richards_: “Oh, I dare say!” After a pause: “Well, I am a poor, weak, helpless man, with no one to advise me or counsel me, and I have been cruelly deceived. How could you, Lucy, how could you? I can never get over this.” He drops his head upon her shoulder. _Miss Galbraith_, starting away again, and looking about the car: “Allen, I have an idea! Do you suppose Mr. Pullman could be induced to _sell_ this car?” _Mr. Richards_: “Why?” _Miss Galbraith_: “Why, because I think it’s perfectly lovely, and I should like to live in it always. It could be fitted up for a sort of summer-house, don’t you know, and we could have it in the garden, and you could smoke in it.” _Mr. Richards_: “Admirable! It would look just like a travelling photographic saloon. No, Lucy, we won’t buy it; we will simply keep it as a precious souvenir, a sacred memory, a beautiful dream,—and let it go on fulfilling its destiny all the same.” _Porter_, entering, and gathering up _Miss Galbraith’s_ things: “Be at Schenectady in half a minute, miss. Won’t have much time.”