when you take off your glove everybody will know we’re not B. and G.,” he insisted.
She hesitated; a delicate flush crept over her face; then she nervously stripped the glove from her left hand and extended it. A plain gold ring encircled the third finger. “What shall I do?” she whispered. “I can’t get it off. I’ve tried, but I can’t.”
“Does it belong there?” he asked, seriously.
“You mean, am I married? No, no,” she said, impatiently; “it’s my grandmother’s wedding-ring. I was just trying it on this morning – this morning of all mornings! Think of it!”
She looked anxiously at her white fingers, then at him.
“What do you think?” she asked, naïvely; “I’ve tried soap and cold-cream, but it won’t come off.”
“Well,” he said, with a forced laugh, “Fate appears to be personally conducting this tour, and it’s probably all right – ” He hesitated. “Perhaps it’s better than to wear no ring – ”
“Why?” she asked, innocently. “Oh! perhaps it’s better, after all, to be mistaken for B. and G. than for a pair of unchaperoned creatures. Is that what you mean?”
“Yes,” he said, vaguely.
There came a gentle jolt, a faint grinding sound, a vibration increasing. Lighted lanterns, red and green, glided past their window.
“We’ve started,” he said.
Then a negro porter came jauntily down the aisle, saying something in a low voice to everybody as he passed. And when he came to them he smiled encouragement and made an extra bow, murmuring, “First call for dinner, if you please, madam.”
They were the centre of discreet attention in the dining-car; and neither the ring on her wedding-finger nor their bearing and attitude towards each other were needed to confirm the general conviction.
He tried to do all he could to make it easy for her, but he didn’t know how, or he never would have ordered rice pudding with a confidence that set their own negro waiter grinning from ear to ear.
She bit her red lips and looked out of the window; but the window, blackened by night and quicksilvered by the snow, was only a mirror for a very lovely and distressed face.
Indeed, she was charming in her supposed rôle; their fellow-passengers’ criticisms were exceedingly favorable. Even the young imp who had pronounced them B. and G. with infantile unreserve appeared to be impressed by her fresh, young beauty; and an old clergyman across the aisle beamed on them at intervals, and every beam was a benediction.
As for them, embarrassment and depression were at first masked under a polite gayety; but the excitement of the drama gained on them; appearances were to be kept up in the rôles of a comedy absolutely forced upon them; and that brought exhilaration.
From mental self-absolution they ventured on mentally absolving each other. Fate had done it! Their consciences were free. Their situation was a challenge in itself, and to accept it must mean to conquer.
Stirring two lumps of sugar into his cup of coffee, he looked up suddenly, to find her gray eyes meeting his across the table. They smiled like friends.
“Of what are you thinking?” she asked.
“I was thinking that perhaps you had forgiven me,” he said, hopefully.
“I have” – she frowned a little – “I think I have.”
“And – you do not think me a coward?”
“No,” she said, watching him, chin propped on her linked fingers.
He laughed gratefully.
“As a matter of cold fact,” he observed, “if we had met anywhere in town – under other circumstances – there is no reason that I can see why we shouldn’t have become excellent friends.”
“No reason at all,” she said, thoughtfully.
“And that reminds me,” he went on, dropping his voice and leaning across the table, “I’m going to send back a telegram to my sister, and I fancy you may wish to send one to your wandering brother.”
“I suppose I’d better,” she said. An involuntary shiver passed over her. “He’s probably frantic,” she added.
“Probably,” he admitted.
“My father and mother are in Europe,” she observed. “I hope my brother hasn’t cabled them.”
“I think we’d better get those telegrams off,” he said, motioning the waiter to bring the blanks and find pen and ink.
They waited, gazing meditatively at each other. Presently he said:
“I’d like to tell you what it is that sends me flying down to Florida at an hour’s notice. I think some explanation is due you – if it wouldn’t bore you?”
“Tell me,” she said, quietly.
“Why, then, it’s that headlong idiot of a brother of mine,” he explained. “He’s going to try to marry a girl he has only known twenty-four hours – a girl we never heard of. And I’m on my way to stop it! – the young fool! – and I’ll stop it if I have to drag him home by the heels! Here’s the telegram we got late this afternoon – a regular bombshell.” He drew the yellow bit of paper from his breast-pocket, unfolded it, and read:
“‘I am going to marry to-morrow the loveliest girl in the United States. Only met her yesterday. Love at first sight. You’ll all worship her! She’s eighteen, a New-Yorker, and her name is Marie Hetherford.
He looked up angrily. “What do you think of that?” he demanded.
“Think?” she stammered – “think?” She dropped her hands helplessly, staring at him. “Marie Hetherford is my sister!” she said.
“Your – sister,” he repeated, after a long pause – “your sister!”
She pressed a white hand to her forehead, clearing her eyes with a gesture.
“Isn’t it too absurd!” she said, dreamily. “My sister sent us a telegram like yours. Our parents are abroad. So my brother and I threw some things into a trunk and – and started! Oh, did you ever hear of anything like this?”
“Your sister!” he repeated, dazed. “My brother and your sister. And I am on my way to stop it; and you are on your way to stop it – ”
She began to laugh – not hysterically, but it was not a natural laugh.
“And,” he went on, “I’ve lost another sister in the shuffle, and you’ve lost another brother in the shuffle, and now there’s a double-shuffle danced by you and me – ”
“Don’t. Don’t!” she said, faint from laughter.
“Yes, I will,” he said. “And I’ll say more! I’ll say that Destiny is taking exclusive charge of our two families,
