ness of his metamorphosis was brought into closer range; the rich, red-brown of his complexion brought out so vividly his straw-coloured mustache and steel-gray eyes. He seemed more grown-up, and, somehow, farther away. But, when he spoke, the old, boyish Teddy came back again. They had been friends from childhood.
“Why, ’Tave!” he exclaimed, unable to reduce his perplexity to coherence. “How—what—when—where?”
“Train,” said Octavia; “necessity; ten minutes ago; home. Your complexion’s gone, Teddy. Now, how—what—when—where?”
“I’m working down here,” said Teddy. He cast side glances about the station as one does who tries to combine politeness with duty.
“You didn’t notice on the train,” he asked, “an old lady with gray curls and a poodle, who occupied two seats with her bundles and quarrelled with the conductor, did you?”
“I think not,” answered Octavia, reflecting. “And you haven’t, by any chance, noticed a big, gray-mustached man in a blue shirt and six-shooters, with little flakes of merino wool sticking in his hair, have you?”
“Lots of ’em,” said Teddy, with symptoms of mental delirium under the strain. “Do you happen to know any such individual?”
“No; the description is imaginary. Is your interest in the old lady whom you describe a personal one?”
“Never saw her in my life. She’s painted entirely
