"What train, boss?" he asked.

"The Congressional Limited."

"You got jus' four minutes."

"Goodness!" cried Gray-eyes.

"I thought," said Violet-eyes as we accelerated our pace, "that you
prided yourself on always having time to spare?"

"Usually I do," I answered, "but in this case--"

"What car?" the porter interrupted tactfully.

Again I felt for my tickets. This time they were in my change pocket. I
can't imagine how I came to put them there.

"But in this case--_what_?" The violet eyes looked threatening as their
owner put the question.

"Seat seven, car three," I told the porter firmly as we approached the
gate. Then, turning to my dangerous and lovely cross-examiner: "In this
case I am unfortunate, for there is barely time to say good-by."

There are several reasons why I don't believe in railway station kisses.
Kisses given in public are at best but skimpy little things, suggesting
the swift peck of a robin at a peach, whereas it is truer of kissing
than of many other forms of industry that what is worth doing at all is