For five of the six precious hours Ormsby merely saw to it that Elinor was judiciously marooned.  Then the dining-car was reopened and the evening meal was announced.  Waiting until a sufficient number of passengers had gone forward to insure a crowded car, Ormsby let his party fall in with the tail of the procession, and the inevitable happened.  Single seats only could be had, and Elinor was compelled to dine in solemn silence at a table with three strangers.

Dinner over, there remained but twenty minutes of the respite; but the diplomatist kept his head, going back to the sleeping-car with his charges and dropping into the seat beside Elinor with the light of calm assurance in his eye.

“You are quite comfortable?” he began.  “Sha’n’t I have the Presence in the buffet make you a cup of tea?  That in the diner didn’t deserve the name.”

She was regarding him with curious anger in the gray eyes, and her reply quite ignored the kindly offer of refreshment.

“You are the pink of dragomans,” she said.  “Don’t you want to go and smoke?”

“To be entirely consistent, I suppose I ought to,” he confessed, wondering if his throw had failed.  “Do you want me to go?”

“I have been alone all the afternoon:  I can endure it a little while longer, I presume.”

Ormsby permitted himself a single heart-throb of exultation.  He had deliberately gone about to break down her poise, her only barrier of defense, and it began to look as if he had succeeded.

“I couldn’t help it, you know,” he said, catching his cue swiftly.  “There are times when I’m obliged to keep away from you—­times when every fiber of me rebels against the restraints of the false position you have thrust me into.  When I’m taken that way I don’t dare play with the fire.”

“I wish I could know how much you mean by that,” she said musingly.  Deep down in her heart she knew she was as far as ever from loving this man; but his love, or the insistent urging of it, was like a strong current drifting her whither she would not go.

“I mean all that an honest man can mean,” he rejoined.  “I have fought like a soldier for standing-room in the place you have assigned me; I have tried sincerely—­and stupidly, you will say—­to be merely your friend, just the best friend you ever had.  But it’s no use.  Coming or going, I shall always be your lover.”

“Please don’t,” she said, neither coldly nor warmly.  “You are getting over into the domain of the very young people when you say things like that.”

It was an unpleasant thing to say, and he was not beyond wincing a little.  None the less, he would not be turned aside.

“You’ll overlook it in me if I’ve pressed the thing too hard on the side of sentiment, won’t you?  Apart from the fact that I feel that way, I’ve been going on the supposition that you’d like it, if you could only make up your mind to like me.”