Then he came swiftly back
to the outstretched arms of the exile.
"A very brief New York engagement," he whispered in her ear, he knew
not how long afterward. Her head was pressed against his shoulder, her
eyes were closed, her lips parted in the ecstasy of passion.
"Yes," she breathed, so faintly that he barely heard the strongest
word ever put into the language of man.
Half-an-hour later he was speeding down the avenue in a taxi. His
blood was singing, his heart was bursting with joy,--his head was
light, for the feel of her was still in his arms, the voice of her in
his enraptured ears.
He was hurrying homeward to the "diggings" he was soon to desert
forever. Poor, wretched, little old "diggings"! As he passed the
Plaza, the St. Regis and the Gotham, he favoured the great hostelries
with contemplative, calculating eyes; he even looked with speculative
envy upon the mansions of the Astors, the Vanderbilts and the
Huntingtons. She was born and reared in a house of vast dimensions.
Even the Vanderbilt places were puny in comparison. His reflections
carried him back to the Plaza. There, at least, was something
comparable in size. At any rate, it would do until he could look
around for something larger! He laughed at his conceit,--and pinched
himself again.
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