She was looking out of the window at the moment, and he glanced at her curiously. She was quite unembarrassed, and what he had dimly felt before came to him with the force of a shock. With all her intellect and her interest in many of the vital problems of life, she was as innocent as a child. She might not be ignorant, but she had none of the commonplace inquisitiveness and morbidness of youth, and he recalled that she had grown up without the companionship of other girls, had read few novels, and little subjective literature of any sort. She had never looked younger, more utterly guileless, than as she sat fanning herself slowly, her hair damp and tumbled, the flush of excitement on her cheek. Over felt as if he had a child in his charge, and drew a long breath of relief. He knew many girls who would have carried off the situation, but their very dignity would have been the signal of inner tribulation, and made him miserable; with Catalina he had but to have a care that she was not placed in a false position; and, after all, the time was short, and they were unlikely to meet any one who even spoke the English language. She met his eyes, and they burst into laughter like two contented and naughty children. “I’m so happy to get rid of them I can’t contain myself,” announced Catalina. “So are you, only you are too polite to say so. I could have done it on purpose, but am rather glad I failed through too much zeal. Do you understand Lydia?” she asked, abruptly. “I don’t waste time trying to understand women,” he replied, cautiously. “I thought perhaps she confided in you last night. She has tried to unbosom herself to me, but I have not been sympathetic. I don’t understand her. I am half a savage, I suppose, but I could go through life and never even see a man like that.” “I can’t make out if she loves him.” “Oh, love!” Catalina elevated her nose the higher as the word gave her a vague thrill. “You can’t be in love with a person you can’t talk to—outside of poetry. Would you call that sort of thing love?” “No. I don’t think I should.” “I fancy it is a mere arbitrary effort to feel romantic.” She stood up suddenly and looked over the crowded car, then turned to Over with wide eyes. “He is not here!” she said. “Doubtless he is in the next car, or he may have jumped off when he discovered the exodus.” He searched the other cars when the train stopped again, and returned to report that Jesus Maria was missing. Catalina shrugged her shoulders. “We did our best,” she said, “and I, for one, am not going to bother. We’ll have them again soon enough.”