by and vanished
as quickly as the fleeting moments, for it was the afternoon of the
fourth day. An old lady and gentleman, their only traveling companions,
went tactfully to sleep. Leonard glanced warily at them, and turned his
back on the flying landscape.

"Marjorie," he said, carefully peeling a hard-boiled egg; "Marjie."

"Yes, Len."

"Were you ever in love before this?"

Marjorie laughed. She was in the mood for laughter. She must be happy
and light-hearted. Time enough later on to be serious.

"Sure," she replied gravely, mocking eyes on Leonard. "Weren't you?"

Leonard shook his head. "Just with actresses and things, when I was a
kid. Never, really."

"I suppose," said Marjorie, pensively, "I ought to care if you've been
bad or not, but I don't."

"But Marjie, darling,"--Leonard brought her back and went straight to
his point,--"were you ever really in love with that German chap you
spoke of when I gave you the helmet?"

"He was my first love," said Marjorie, with wicked demureness. "I was
fifteen and he was eighteen."

"You were just a flapper," said Leonard; "you couldn't be in love."

"A woman is never too young to adore some man," said Marjorie, sagely.
"I was a miserable homesick wretch, spending the winter in a German
boarding-school."

"A German school! What for?"

Marjorie, her small face drawn with fatigue, but her eyes vivid with
excitement, regarded him pertly.

"In order to learn German--and culture."

Leonard gave a grunt.

"Yes, Len, dear, it was dreadful. You never could have stood it, you're
so particular," Marjorie said, settling her head against Leonard's arm.
"The girls only bathed once a year!"

"Dirty beasts!" muttered Leonard. "But what's that got to do with the
point?"

"I'm preparing you for that by degrees. Len, dear, it was dreadful. No
one spoke a word of English, and I couldn't speak a word of German, and
it was such a long winter, and all the flowers and grass were dead in
the garden, and at night a huge walnut tree used to rattle against my
window and scare me; and they don't open their windows at night, and I
nearly died of suffocation! They think in Germany that the night air is
poisonous."

"They don't use it instead of gas. How about the man? Hurry up!"

He looked at his watch, but Marjorie chose to ignore him.

"We've got eleven hours," she said, with tragic contentment; "I'm coming
to the man. The girls used to sit about indoors and embroider--oh,