“I beg your pardon,” he said, tantalizingly.

“When did he give it you?”

“Who?”

“The porter, sir.”

“You have no right to question me,” he said.

“Oh!” she gasped.  “I did not mean to be inquisitive.”

“But I grant the right.  He gave it me inside of two hours after I first entered the car.”

“At Denver?”

“How do you know I got on at Denver?’

“Why, you passed me in the aisle with your luggage.  Don’t you remember?”

Did he remember!  His heart almost turned over with the joy of knowing that she had really noticed and remembered him.  Involuntarily his glad fingers closed down upon the gloved hand that lay beneath them.

“I believe I do remember, now that you speak of it,” he said, in a stifled voice.  “You were standing at a window?”

“Yes; and I saw you kissing those ladies goodby, too.  Was one of them your wife, or were they all your sisters?  I have wondered.”

“They—­they were—­cousins,” he informed her, confusedly, recalling an incident that had been forgotten.  He had kissed Mary Lyons and Edna Burrage—­but their brothers were present.  “A foolish habit, isn’t it?”

“I do not know.  I have no grown cousins,” she replied, demurely.  “You Americans have such funny customs, though.  Where I live, no gentleman would think of pressing a lady’s hand until it pained her.  Is it necessary?” In the question there was a quiet dignity, half submerged in scorn, so pointed, so unmistakable that he flushed, turned cold with mortification, and hastily removed the amorous fingers.

“I crave your pardon.  It is such a strain to hold myself and you against the rolling of this wagon that I unconsciously gripped your hand harder than I knew.  You—­you will not misunderstand my motive?” he begged, fearful lest he had offended her by his ruthlessness.

“I could not misunderstand something that does not exist,” she said, simply, proudly.

“By Jove, she’s beyond comparison!” he thought.

“You have explained, and I am sorry I spoke as I did.  I shall not again forget how much I owe you.”

“Your indebtedness, if there be one, does not deprive you of the liberty to speak to me as you will.  You could not say anything unjust without asking my forgiveness, and when you do that you more than pay the debt.  It is worth a great deal to me to hear you say that you owe something to me, for I am only too glad to be your creditor.  If there is a debt, you shall never pay it; it is too pleasant an account to be settled with ‘you’re welcome.’  If you insist that you owe much to me, I shall refuse to cancel the debt, and allow it to draw interest forever.”

“What a financier!” she cried.  “That jest yeas worthy of a courtier’s deepest flattery.  Let me say that I am proud to owe my gratitude to you.  You will not permit it to grow less.”