There was a long pause, during which she attempted to withdraw herself from his side, her little fingers struggling timidly beneath the big ones.
"Are you a collector of coins?" she asked at length, a perceptible coldness in her voice.
"No. I am considered a dispenser of coins. Still, I rather like the idea of possessing this queer bit of money as a pocket-piece. I intend to keep it forever, and let it descend as an heirloom to the generations that follow me," he said, laughingly. "Why are you so curious about it?"
"Because it comes from the city and country in which I live," she responded. "If you were in a land far from your own would you not be interested in anything--even a coin--that reminded you of home?"
"Especially if I had not seen one of its kind since leaving home," he replied, insinuatingly.
"Oh, but I have seen many like it. In my purse there are several at this minute."
"Isn't it strange that this particular coin should have reminded you of home?"
"You have no right to question me, sir," she said, coldly, drawing away, only to be lurched back again. In spite of herself she laughed audibly.
"I beg your pardon," he said, tantalizingly.
"When did he give it you?"
"Who?"
"The porter, sir."
"You have no right to question me," he said.
"Oh!" she gasped. "I did not mean to be inquisitive."
"But I grant the right. He gave it me inside of two hours after I first entered the car."
"At Denver?"
"How do you know I got on at Denver?'
"Why, you passed me in the aisle with your luggage. Don't you remember?"
Did he remember! His heart almost turned over with the joy of knowing that she had really noticed and remembered him. Involuntarily his glad fingers closed down upon the gloved hand that lay beneath them.
"I believe I do remember, now that you speak of it," he said, in a stifled voice. "You were standing at a window?"
"Yes; and I saw you kissing those ladies goodby, too. Was one of them your wife, or were they all your sisters? I have wondered."
"They--they were--cousins," he informed her, confusedly, recalling an incident that had been forgotten. He had kissed Mary Lyons and Edna Burrage--but their brothers were present. "A foolish habit, isn't it?"
"I do not know. I have no grown cousins," she replied, demurely. "You Americans have such funny customs, though. Where I live, no gentleman would think of pressing a lady's hand until it pained her. Is it necessary?" In the question there was a quiet dignity, half submerged in scorn, so pointed, so unmistakable that he flushed, turned cold with mortification, and hastily removed the amorous fingers.