paid simultaneously--and in the middle of his story about Sergeant
Jones, the dynamite and the pack mule. So, when they returned to the
parlor-car, nothing was more simple, natural and necessary than that he
should drop into the vacant chair beside her, and continue where he
left off. He felt, when he had finished, the polite necessity of
leading the talk back to her; besides, he had not finished his Study of
the Unknown Girl. He returned, then, to the last thread which she had
left hanging.

"So you too are glad to be at home!" he said. "I'm so glad that I don't
want to lose sight either of a skyscraper or of apple trees for years
and years. I can't remember when I've ever wanted to stay in one place
before."

She laughed--the first full laugh he had heard from her. It was low and
deep and bubbling, like water flowing from a long-necked bottle.

"Just a moment ago, we were confessing that we were crazy for the
Orient."

"I'm glad to be caught in an inconsistency!" he answered. "I've been
afraid, though, that this desire to roost in one place was a sign of
incipient old age."

She looked at him directly, and for a moment her fearless glance played
over him, as in alarm.

"Oh, I shouldn't be afraid of _that_," she said. "I don't know your
age, of course, but if it will reassure you any, I'd put it at
twenty-eight. And that, according to Peter Ibbertson, is quite the