the crowd that was passing through the grilled gate to the waiting Cherbourg train.
"Express Train for New York," read the sign over the gate, a French method of flattering home-going Americans.
Dudley spurted here and there searching the faces of the passengers. And finally he discovered her, moving away from him, the tall, severe duenna preceding her with a piece of hand luggage. Dudley frantically stumbled over a porter. He became entangled in the leash of a woman's yelping poodle and had no time to be polite. But at last he caught up to Carmelita and put his hand upon her shoulder. Startled, she looked around. If there was joy in her face, she banished it quickly behind a cold mask.
"I have been trying to—telephone you—all morning," he panted. "Carmelita, forgive me for everything I said last night—except that I love you."
"Never." Her lips were firm—but trembling. She turned toward the gate. Her chaperone was already several yards ahead, blissfully unconscious of the interruption, cut off by the mulling crowd.
"Carmelita, I love you," he said desperately into her ear.
"I hate you!" with deep conviction.
