Friday was not a big dinner night at the Beck house. I don’t care. He found, however, that now the time had come he utterly lacked the courage to attempt any such speech. He entered it; crossed the room, in which there was only a small truckle-bed, over which he stumbled; opened another door and gained the stair-head. I must say what I have to say!” “But not now—not here. And that confounded engagement!” “Gone!” They came upon a platform, and stood before her compartment. Her hair once more was arranged with its old simplicity. She whispered, “Another car is coming,” as lights approached their car. He hesitated.
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