That evening some bad boys had come out from town and strewn the road near the mill with dozens of broken glass bottles, after which they hid in the wild plum bushes to wait for the fun.  Ralph’s was the first car out, and though his lights glittered on this bed of jagged glass, there was no time to stop; the road was ditched on either side, so he had to drive straight ahead, and got into Frankfort on flat tires.  The express whistled just as he pulled up at the station.  He and Claude caught up the four pieces of hand luggage and put them in the stateroom.  Leaving Enid there with the bags, the two boys went to the rear platform of the observation car to talk until the last moment.  Ralph checked off on his fingers the list of things he had promised Claude to attend to.  Claude thanked him feelingly.  He felt that without Ralph he could never have got married at all.  They had never been such good friends as during the last fortnight.

The wheels began to turn.  Ralph gripped Claude’s hand, ran to the front of the car and stepped off.  As Claude passed him, he stood waving his handkerchief,—­a rather funny figure under the station lights, in his black clothes and his stiff straw hat, his short legs well apart, wearing his incurably jaunty air.

The train glided quietly out through the summer darkness, along the timbered river valley.  Claude was alone on the back platform, smoking a nervous cigar.  As they passed the deep cut where Lovely Creek flowed into the river, he saw the lights of the mill house flash for a moment in the distance.  The night air was still; heavy with the smell of sweet clover that grew high along the tracks, and of wild grapevines wet with dew.  The conductor came to ask for the tickets, saying with a wise smile that he had been hunting for him, as he didn’t like to trouble the lady.

After he was gone, Claude looked at his watch, threw away the end of his cigar, and went back through the Pullman cars.  The passengers had gone to bed; the overhead lights were always turned low when the train left Frankfort.  He made his way through the aisles of swaying green curtains, and tapped at the door of his state room.  It opened a little way, and Enid stood there in a white silk dressing-gown with many ruffles, her hair in two smooth braids over her shoulders.

“Claude,” she said in a low voice, “would you mind getting a berth somewhere out in the car tonight?  The porter says they are not all taken.  I’m not feeling very well.  I think the dressing on the chicken salad must have been too rich.”

He answered mechanically.  “Yes, certainly.  Can’t I get you something?”

“No, thank you.  Sleep will do me more good than anything else.  Good-night.”

She closed the door, and he heard the lock slip.  He stood looking at the highly polished wood of the panel for a moment, then turned irresolutely and went back along the slightly swaying aisle of green curtains.  In the observation car he stretched himself out upon two wicker chairs and lit another cigar.  At twelve o’clock the porter came in.