“I don’t know anything about that,” persisted the Traveling Salesman, brushing nervously at the cinders on his hat.  “All I say is—­maybe he’s married.”

“Well, that’s all right,” smiled the Youngish Girl.  “Then Fate would have settled it all for me perfectly satisfactorily that way.  I wouldn’t mind at all his not being at the station.  And I wouldn’t mind at all his being married.  And I wouldn’t mind at all his turning out to be very, very old.  None of those things, you see, would interfere in the slightest with the memory of the—­Voice or the—­chivalry of the broken hand.  THE ONLY THING I’D MIND, I TELL YOU, WOULD BE TO THINK THAT HE REALLY AND TRULY WAS THE MAN WHO WAS MADE FOR ME—­AND I MISSED FINDING IT OUT!—­Oh, of course, I’ve worried myself sick these past few months thinking of the audacity of what I’ve done.  I’ve got such a ‘Sore Thought,’ as you call it, that I’m almost ready to scream if anybody mentions the word ‘indiscreet’ in my presence.  And yet, and yet—­after all, it isn’t as though I were reaching out into the darkness after an indefinite object.  What I’m reaching out for is a light, so that I can tell exactly just what object is there.  And, anyway,” she quoted a little waveringly: 

    “He either fears his fate too much,
      Or his, deserts are small,
    Who dares not put it to the touch
      To gain or lose it all!”

“Ain’t you scared just a little bit?” probed the Traveling Salesman.

All around them the people began bustling suddenly with their coats and bags.  With a gesture of impatience the Youngish Girl jumped up and started to fasten her furs.  The eyes that turned to answer the Traveling Salesman’s question were brimming wet with tears.

“Yes—­I’m—­scared to death!” she smiled incongruously.

Almost authoritatively the Salesman reached out his empty hand for her traveling-bag.  “What you going to do if he ain’t there?” he asked.

The Girl’s eyebrows lifted.  “Why, just what I’m going to do if he is there,” she answered quite definitely.  “I’m going right back to Montreal to-night.  There’s a train out again, I think, at eight-thirty.  Even late as we are, that will give me an hour and a half at the station.”

“Gee!” said the Traveling Salesman.  “And you’ve traveled five days just to see what a man looks like—­for an hour and a half?”

“I’d have traveled twice five days,” she whispered, “just to see what he looked like—­for a—­second and a half!”

“But how in thunder are you going to recognize him?” fussed the Traveling Salesman.  “And how in thunder is he going to recognize you?”

“Maybe I won’t recognize him,” acknowledged the Youngish Girl, “and likelier than not he won’t recognize me; but don’t you see?—­can’t you understand?—­that all the audacity of it, all the worry of it—­is absolutely nothing compared to the one little chance in ten thousand that we will recognize each other?”