plaintive bars. He grinned as he recognized
"Silver Threads Among the Gold." The train moved away, gathered speed.
He followed it. They were not smiling now. She was leaning over the
railing, as though to be as near to him as the fast-moving train would
allow. He was walking swiftly along with the train, as though
hypnotized. Their eyes held. The brave figure in blue on the train
platform. The brave figure in khaki outside. The blue suddenly swam in a
haze before his eyes; the khaki a mist before hers. The crisp little
veil was a limp little rag when finally she went in to search for Upper
Eleven.
The white-coated figure that had passed up and down the aisle unnoticed
and unnoticing as she sat hidden behind the kindly folds of her
newspaper suddenly became a very human being as Emma regained
self-control, decided on dinner as a panacea, and informed the white
coat that she desired Upper Eleven made up early.
The White Coat had said, "Yas'm," and glanced up at her. Whereupon she
had said:
"Why, William!"
And he, "Well, fo' de lan'! 'F 'tain't Mis' McChesney! Well, mah sakes
alive, Mis' McChesney! Ah ain't seen yo' since yo' married. Ah done heah
yo' married yo' boss an' got a swell brownstone house, an' ev'thing
gran'--"
"I've got everything, William, but a lower berth to Chicago. They swore
they couldn't give me anything but an upper."
A speculative look crept into William's rolling eye. Emma recognized it.
Her hand reached toward her bag. Then it stopped. She smiled. "No. No,
William. Time was. But not these days. Four years ago I'd have slipped
you fifty cents right now, and you'd have produced a lower berth from
somewhere. But I'm going to fool you. My boss has gone to war, William,
and so has my son. And I'm going to take that fifty cents and buy thrift
stamps for Miss Emma McChesney, aged three, and Mr. Buddy McChesney,
aged six months. And I'll dispose my old bones in Upper Eleven."
She went in to dinner.
At eight-thirty a soft and deferential voice sounded in her ear.
"Ah got yo' made up, Mis' McChesney."
"But this is my--"
He beckoned. He padded down the aisle with that walk which is a peculiar
result of flat feet and twenty years of swaying car. Emma followed. He
stopped before Lower Six and drew aside the curtain. It was that lower
which can always be produced, magically, though ticket sellers, Pullman
agents, porters, and train conductors swear that it does not exist. The
key to it
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