“Now, there’s some traveling men,” he mourned, “who are as slick and fine as any college president you ever saw.  But me?  I’d look coarse sipping warm milk out of a gold-lined spoon.  I haven’t had any education.  And I’m fat, besides!” Almost plaintively he turned and stared for a second from the Young Electrician’s embarrassed grin to the Youngish Girl’s more subtle smile.  “Why, I’m nearly fifty years old,” he said, “and since I was fifteen the only learning I’ve ever got was what I picked up in trains talking to whoever sits nearest to me.  Sometimes it’s hens I learn about.  Sometimes it’s national politics.  Once a young Canuck farmer sitting up all night with me coming down from St. John learned me all about the French Revolution.  And now and then high school kids will give me a point or two on astronomy.  And in this very seat I’m sitting in now, I guess, a red-kerchiefed Dago woman, who worked on a pansy farm just outside of Boston, used to ride in town with me every night for a month, and she coached me quite a bit on Dago talk, and I paid her five dollars for that.”

“Oh, dear me!” said the Youngish Girl, with unmistakable sincerity.  “I’m afraid you haven’t learned anything at all from me!”

“Oh, yes, I have too!” cried the Traveling Salesman, his whole round face lighting up suddenly with real pleasure.  “I’ve learned about an entirely new kind of lady to go home and tell my wife about.  And I’ll bet you a hundred dollars that you’re a good deal more of a ‘lady’ than you’d even be willing to tell us.  There ain’t any provincial—­ ’Don’t-you-dare-speak-to-me—­this-is-t
he-first-time-I-ever-was-on-a-train air about you!  I’ll bet you’ve traveled a lot—­all round the world—­froze your eyes on icebergs and scorched ’em some on tropics.”

“Y-e-s,” laughed the Youngish Girl.

“And I’ll bet you’ve met the Governor-General at least once in your life.”

“Yes,” said the Girl, still laughing.  “He dined at my house with me a week ago yesterday.”

“And I’ll bet you, most of anything,” said the Traveling Salesman shrewdly, “that you’re haughtier than haughty with folks of your own kind.  But with people like us—­me and the Electrician, or the soldier’s widow from South Africa who does your washing, or the Eskimo man at the circus—­you’re as simple as a kitten.  All your own kind of folks are nothing but grown-up people to you, and you treat ’em like grown-ups all right—­a hundred cents to the dollar—­but all our kind of folks are playmates to you, and you take us as easy and pleasant as you’d slide down on the floor and play with any other kind of a kid.  Oh, you can tackle the other proposition all right—­dances and balls and general gold lace glories; but it ain’t fine loafers sitting round in parlors talking about the weather that’s going to hold you very long, when all the time your heart’s up and over the back fence with the kids who are playing the games.  And, oh, say!” he broke off abruptly—­“would you think it awfully impertinent of me if I asked you how you do your hair like that?  ’Cause, surer than smoke, after I get home and supper is over and the dishes are washed and I’ve just got to sleep, that little wife of mine will wake me up and say:  ’Oh, just one thing more.  How did that lady in the train do her hair?’”