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MISS GALBRAITH: “MR. RICHARDS, your personal history for the last twenty-four hours is a matter of perfect indifference to me, as it shall be for the next twenty-four hundred years. I see that you are resolved to annoy me, and since you will not leave the car, I must do so.” She rises haughtily from her seat, but the imprisoned skirt of her polonaise twitches her abruptly back into her chair. She bursts into tears. “Oh, what SHALL I do?”

MR. RICHARDS, dryly: “You shall do whatever you like, Miss Galbraith, when I’ve set you free; for I see your dress is caught in the window. When it’s once out, I’ll shut the window, and you can call the porter to raise it.” He leans forward over her chair, and while she shrinks back the length of her tether, he tugs at the window-fastening. “I can’t get at it. Would you be so good as to stand up,–all you can?” Miss Galbraith stands up, droopingly, and Mr. Richards makes a movement towards her, and then falls back. “No, that won’t do. Please sit down again.” He goes round her chair and tries to get at the window from that side. “I can’t get any purchase on it. Why don’t you cut out that piece?” Miss Galbraith stares at him in dumb amazement. “Well, I don’t see what we’re to do: I’ll go and get the porter.” He goes to the end of the car, and returns. “I can’t find the PORTER,–he must be in one of the other cars. But”– brightening with the fortunate conception–“I’ve just thought of something. Will it unbutton?”

MISS GALBRAITH: “Unbutton?”

MR. RICHARDS: “Yes; this garment of yours.”

MISS GALBRAITH: “My polonaise?” Inquiringly, “Yes.”

MR. RICHARDS: “Well, then, it’s a very simple matter. If you will just take it off I can easily” –

MISS GALBRAITH, faintly: “I can’t. A polonaise isn’t like an overcoat” –

MR. RICHARDS, with dismay: “Oh! Well, then”–He remains thinking a moment in hopeless perplexity.

MISS GALBRAITH, with polite ceremony: “The porter will be back soon. Don’t trouble yourself any further about it, please. I shall do very well.”

MR. RICHARDS, without heeding her: “If you could kneel on that foot- cushion, and face the window” –

MISS GALBRAITH, kneeling promptly: “So?”

MR. RICHARDS: “Yes, and now”–kneeling beside her–“if you’ll allow me to–to get at the window-catch,”–he stretches both arms forward; she shrinks from his right into his left, and then back again,–“and pull while I raise the window” –

MISS GALBRAITH: “Yes, yes; but do hurry, please. If any one saw us, I don’t know what they would think. It’s perfectly ridiculous!”– pulling. “It’s caught in the corner of the window, between the frame and the sash, and it won’t come! Is my hair troubling you? Is it in your eyes?”

MR. RICHARDS: “It’s in my eyes, but it isn’t troubling me. Am I inconveniencing you?”

MISS GALBRAITH: “Oh, not at all.”

MR. RICHARDS: “Well, now then, pull hard!” He lifts the window with a great effort; the polonaise comes free with a start, and she strikes violently against him. In supporting the shock he cannot forbear catching her for an instant to his heart. She frees herself, and starts indignantly to her feet.

MISS GALBRAITH: “Oh, what a cowardly–subterfuge!”

MR. RICHARDS: “Cowardly? You’ve no idea how much courage it took.” Miss Galbraith puts her handkerchief to her face, and sobs. “Oh, don’t cry! Bless my heart,–I’m sorry I did it! But you know how dearly I love you, Lucy, though I do think you’ve been cruelly unjust. I told you I never should love any one else, and I never shall. I couldn’t help it; upon my soul, I couldn’t. Nobody could. Don’t let it vex you, my”–He approaches her.