was his own car did Harold's pace or fears slacken. And then his panic was renewed when he looked about him and wondered if, after all, this was his car. It was an entirely changed locale. The cushioned seats had given way to twin lines of hung green cloth with a narrow aisle running through them. He stood uncertainly for a moment, then walked down to where his seat must have been. The explanation of this strange transformation at length occurred to him. The porter had made up the berths while he was at dinner.
Harold parted a green curtain and quickly closed it again. A fat, grouchy-looking old man was sitting on the edge of a berth trying to extract tired feet from tight shoes. He next intruded upon a slim gentleman of similar irascible disposition. The berth following was Harold's, as proven by the presence of his new bag underneath it.
Harold lay down, but not to sleep. He was thinking of that embarrassing scene in the dining car. And, in spite of his panic, of his ignominious flight, he felt that he would like to see that girl again.
Harold had never been fond of girls. He had never experienced the youthful palpitations of puppy love, the high school dance flirtations and the like. Girls had never entered
