ache of hopeless admiration. Almost every sentence opened a new
vista of his experience and her ignorance. She did not suspect that
he meant it to be so; she only felt dazzled by the easy, glancing
references he made to men and books and places.

They stopped at the railroad track to watch the eastward-bound train
thunder by. Five hours out of San Francisco, its passengers looked
quite at home in the big green upholstered seats. Bored women looked
idly out upon little Monroe, half-closed magazines in their hands.
Card-playing men did not glance up as the village flashed by. On the
platform of the observation car the usual well-wrapped girl and
pipe-smoking young man were carrying on the usual flirtation. Martie
saw the train nearly every day, but never without a thrill. She said
to herself, "New York!" as a pilgrim might murmur of Mecca or of
Heaven.

"That's a good train," said Rodney. "Let's see, this is Wednesday.
They'll be in New York Sunday night. Awful place on Sunday--no
theatres, no ball games, no drinks--"

"I could manage without theatres or ball games," Martie laughed.
"But I must have my whisky!"

"It sounded as if I meant that, but you know me!" he laughed back.
"Lord, how I'd like to show you New York. Wouldn't you love it!
Broadway--well, it's a wonder! There's something doing every minute.
You'd love the theatres--"

"I know I would!" Martie assented, glowing.