Then they had a quarrel; she accusing him of behaviour unworthy of a child in arms, and he denying it, and bringing counter charges, until Mademoiselle Murphy laughed in sympathy, and the last croisson was eaten under a flag of truce. Then they rose, and she took his arm with a bright nod to Mile. Murphy, who cried them a merry: “ Bonjour, madame! bonjour, monsieur! ” and watched them hail a passing cab and drive away. “ Dieu! qu’il est beau ,” she sighed, adding after a moment, “Do they be married, I dunno— ma foi ils ont bien l’air .”
The cab swung around the Rue de Medici, turned into the Rue de Vaugirard, followed it to where it crosses the Rue de Rennes, and taking that noisy thoroughfare, drew up before the Gare Montparnasse. They were just in time for a train and scampered up the stairway and out to the cars as the last note from the starting-gong rang through the arched station. The guard slammed the door of their compartment, a whistle sounded, answered by a screech from the locomotive, and the long train glided from the station, faster, faster, and sped out into the morning sunshine. The summer wind blew in their faces from the open window, and sent the soft hair dancing on the girl’s forehead.
“We have the compartment to ourselves,” said Hastings.
She leaned against the cushioned window-seat, her eyes bright and wide open, her lips parted. The wind lifted her hat, and fluttered the ribbons under her chin. With a quick movement she untied them, and, drawing a long hatpin from her hat, laid it down on the seat beside her. The train was flying.
The colour surged in her cheeks, and, with each quick-drawn breath, her breath rose and fell under the cluster of lilies at her throat. Trees, houses, ponds, danced past, cut by a mist of telegraph poles.
“Faster! faster!” she cried.