Gladys was used to being sworn at.  She was not in the least intimidated.

“Do you s’pose I was goin’ to have M’ria talked about?” she said.  “You can cuss all you want to.”

They got into the train.  Wollaston sat by himself, Gladys and Maria together.  Maria was no longer weeping, but she looked terrified beyond measure, and desperate.  A horrible imagination of evil was over her.  She never glanced at Wollaston.  She thought that she wished there would be an accident on the train and he might be killed.  She hated him more than he hated her.

They were just in time for a boat at Cortlandt Street.  When they reached the Jersey City side Wollaston went straight to the information bureau, and then returned to Gladys and Maria, seated on a bench in the waiting-room.

“Well, there is a train,” he said, curtly.

“’Ain’t it been took off?” asked Gladys.

“No, but we’ve got to wait an hour and a half.”  Then he bent down and whispered in Gladys’s ear, “I wish to God you’d been dead before you got us into this, Gladys Mann!”

“My father said it had been took off,” said Gladys.  “You sure there is one?”

“Of course I’m sure!”

“My!” said Gladys.

Wollaston went to a distant seat and sat by himself.  The two girls waited miserably.  Gladys had suffered a relapse.  Her degeneracy of wit had again overwhelmed her.  She looked at Maria from time to time, then she glanced around at Wollaston, and her expression was almost idiotic.  The people who were on the seat with them moved away.  Maria turned suddenly to Gladys.

“Gladys Mann,” said she, “if you ever tell of this—­”

“Then you ain’t goin’ to—­” said Gladys.

“Going to what?”

“Live with him?”

“Live with him!  I hate him enough to wish he was dead.  I’ll never live with him; and if you tell, Gladys Mann, I’ll tell you what I’ll do.”

“What?” asked Gladys, in a horrified whisper.

“I’ll go and drown myself in Fisher’s Pond, that’s what I’ll do.”

“I never will tell, honest, M’ria,” said Gladys.

“You’d better not.”

“Hope to die, if I do.”

“You will die if you do,” said Maria, “for I’ll leave a note saying you pushed me into the pond, and it will be true, too.  Oh, Gladys Mann! it’s awful what you’ve done!”

“I didn’t mean no harm,” said Gladys.

“And there’s a train, too.”

“Father said there wasn’t.”

“Your father!”

“I know it.  There ain’t never tellin’ when father lies,” said Gladys.  “I guess father don’t know what lies is, most of the time.  I s’pose he’s always had a little, if he ’ain’t had a good deal.  But I’ll never tell, Maria, not as long as I live.”

“If you do, I’ll drown myself,” said Maria.

Then the two sat quietly until the train was called out, when they went through the gate, Maria showing her tickets for herself and Gladys.  Wollaston had purchased his own and returned Maria’s.  He kept behind the two girls as if he did not belong to their party at all.  On the train he rode in the smoking-car.