It was late when he said
good-night, and, after returning to his quarters, with
characteristic perversity he proceeded to sit up, smoking
cigarette after cigarette, while he tried to set his thoughts in
order. He was grateful to Mrs. Cortlandt, and immensely pleased to
learn that the man injured in the affair in New York had not died.
But something must be done about Chiquita. That was the important
thing now. He wrestled with the problem for a long time in vain.
He was afraid to go to bed for fear of oversleeping again, and
decided to stay up until train-time. But at length drowsiness
overcame him, and for the few remaining hours he dreamed
lonesomely of an oval face and big, black, velvet eyes.
He did not really miss his rest until the next afternoon, when the
heat and the monotonous rumble of the train, together with its
restful swaying, sent him off into a delicious doze, from which he
was awakened by a brakeman barely in time to escape discovery.
Thereafter he maintained more regular habits, and while no one but
the luxury-loving youth himself knew what effort it required to
cut short his slumbers in their sweetest part, he never missed his
train, and in time the early hours ceased to be a hardship.
In the days that followed he tried his very best to make good.
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