into his scheme of life. But somehow this girl seemed different. She was so fresh-looking, so pretty, so friendly-like. She was not at all like the giggling, silly, flirtatious young ladies that haunted the Sanford soda fountains and were met by slicked-up young swains Sunday evenings after church.
This girl looked like a person a fellow would like to talk to, to make a pal of. She stirred something vaguely warm within him, something that made him eager to know her name and see her again.
And, though he did not dream it, the girl was thinking of Harold too. Curled in her berth trying to become interested in a dry magazine, the girl was thinking of the scene in the dining car and her embarrassed tablemate. She was not angry with him. Neither did she feel like laughing at his discomfiture. There was something so frank, unspoiled, wholesomely attractive about his face. Something that appealed to the mother in her, as well as to something else. She wondered what his name was and when she would see him again.
After an hour of lying awake, Harold shook himself impatiently. Pleasant as it was, he couldn't be thinking of that girl all night. What else was there to do? Having noted the exact location of his sleeping place, he rolled
