The duenna, surrounded by baggage, was beckoning from the other side of the grill. The train would start in a few minutes.
"I am so utterly miserable, Carmelita."
"I am glad."
"I was a fool."
"Yes."
"At least kiss me good-bye."
"No." But her voice had lost its arrogance.
Then suddenly he had swept her, protesting and all, into his arms, for all of Atlantic-bound Paris to see, and kissed her again and again upon her petulant, trembling lips. At first she fought madly, but gradually she yielded and was clinging to him, sobbing nervously, happily. He led her, a sturdy arm supporting her, back through the crowd, away from her train and Buenos Aires and Don Pablo Mendoza and her duenna and her trunks.
And Carmelita's past, as represented by a frightened and gesticulating and very respectable elderly Spanish lady shrilling into the ears of an uncomprehending French guard her demand that the train stop at once, rolled out of the train-shed of the Gare du Nord. Dudley asked, "Can't we be married at once, Carmelita—to-day—this morning?"
