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From mental self-absolution they ventured on mentally absolving each other. Fate had done it! Their consciences were free. Their situation was a challenge in itself, and to accept it must mean to conquer.

Stirring two lumps of sugar into his cup of coffee, he looked up suddenly, to find her gray eyes meeting his across the table. They smiled like friends.

“Of what are you thinking?” she asked.

“I was thinking that perhaps you had forgiven me,” he said, hopefully.

“I have”–she frowned a little–“I think I have.”

“And–you do not think me a coward?”

“No,” she said, watching him, chin propped on her linked fingers.

He laughed gratefully.

“As a matter of cold fact,” he observed, “if we had met anywhere in town–under other circumstances–there is no reason that I can see why we shouldn’t have become excellent friends.”

“No reason at all,” she said, thoughtfully.

“And that reminds me,” he went on, dropping his voice and leaning across the table, “I’m going to send back a telegram to my sister, and I fancy you may wish to send one to your wandering brother.”

“I suppose I’d better,” she said. An involuntary shiver passed over her. “He’s probably frantic,” she added.

“Probably,” he admitted.

“My father and mother are in Europe,” she observed. “I hope my brother hasn’t cabled them.”

“I think we’d better get those telegrams off,” he said, motioning the waiter to bring the blanks and find pen and ink.

They waited, gazing meditatively at each other. Presently he said:

“I’d like to tell you what it is that sends me flying down to Florida at an hour’s notice. I think some explanation is due you–if it wouldn’t bore you?”

“Tell me,” she said, quietly.

“Why, then, it’s that headlong idiot of a brother of mine,” he explained. “He’s going to try to marry a girl he has only known twenty-four hours–a girl we never heard of. And I’m on my way to stop it!–the young fool!–and I’ll stop it if I have to drag him home by the heels! Here’s the telegram we got late this afternoon–a regular bombshell.” He drew the yellow bit of paper from his breast-pocket, unfolded it, and read:

“‘ST. AUGUSTINE, FLORIDA.

“‘I am going to marry to-morrow the loveliest girl
in the United States. Only met her yesterday. Love
at first sight. You’ll all worship her! She’s eighteen,
a New-Yorker, and her name is Marie Hetherford.

JIM.'”

He looked up angrily. “What do you think of that?” he demanded.

“Think?” she stammered–“think?” She dropped her hands helplessly, staring at him. “Marie Hetherford is my sister!” she said.

“Your–sister,” he repeated, after a long pause–“your sister!”

She pressed a white hand to her forehead, clearing her eyes with a gesture.

“Isn’t it too absurd!” she said, dreamily. “My sister sent us a telegram like yours. Our parents are abroad. So my brother and I threw some things into a trunk and–and started! Oh, did you ever hear of anything like this?”

“Your sister!” he repeated, dazed. “My brother and your sister. And I am on my way to stop it; and you are on your way to stop it–“

She began to laugh–not hysterically, but it was not a natural laugh.

“And,” he went on, “I’ve lost another sister in the shuffle, and you’ve lost another brother in the shuffle, and now there’s a double-shuffle danced by you and me–“

“Don’t. Don’t!” she said, faint from laughter.

“Yes, I will,” he said. “And I’ll say more! I’ll say that Destiny is taking exclusive charge of our two families, and it would not surprise me if your brother and my sister were driving around New York together at this moment looking for us!”

Their laughter infected the entire dining-car; every waiter snickered; the enfant terrible grinned; the aged minister of the Church of England beamed a rapid fire of benedictions on them.

But they had forgotten everybody except each other.

“From what I hear and from what I know personally of your family,” she said, “it seems to me that they never waste much time about anything.”