"Nor me," mused Miss Barrison--"if I were really in love."
Meanwhile I had been very busy thinking about Professor Farrago, and, coming to an interesting theory, advanced it.
"If," I began, "he marries one of those transparent ladies, what about the children?"
"Some would be, no doubt, transparent," said Kensett.
"They might be only translucent," suggested Miss Barrison.
"Or partially opaque," I ventured. "But it's a risky marriage--not to be able to see what one's wife is about--"
"That is a silly reflection on women," said Miss Barrison, quietly. "Besides, a girl need not be transparent to conceal what she's doing."
This observation seemed to end our postprandial and tripartite conference; Miss Barrison retired to her stateroom presently; after a last cigar, smoked almost in silence, the young man and I bade each other a civil good-night and retired to our respective berths.
I think it was at Richmond, Virginia, that I was awakened by the negro porter shaking me very gently and repeating, in a pleasant, monotonous voice: "Teleg'am foh you, suh! Teleg'am foh Mistuh Gilland, suh. 'Done call you 'lev'm times sense breakfass, suh! Las' call foh luncheon, suh. Teleg'am foh--"
"Heavens!" I muttered, sitting up in my bunk, "is it as late as that! Where are we?" I slid up the window-shade and sat blinking at a flood of sunshine.
"Telegram?" I said, yawning and rubbing my eyes. "Let me have it. All right, I'll be out presently. Shut that curtain! I don't want the entire car to criticise my pink pajamas!"
"Ain' nobody in de cyar, 'scusin yo'se'f, suh," grinned the porter, retiring.
I heard him, but did not comprehend, sitting there sleepily unfolding the scrawled telegram. Suddenly my eyes flew wide open; I scanned the despatch with stunned incredulity:
"We couldn't help it. Love at first sight. Married this morning in Atlanta. Wildly happy. Forgive. Wire blessing.
"(Signed) HAROLD KENSETT, "HELEN BARRISON KENSETT."
"Oh, Lord!" I groaned, and rolled over, burying my head in the blankets; for I understood at last that Science, the most jealous, most exacting of mistresses, could never brook a rival.
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