“You... er... And your eyes sort of shine, too.”
“Never mind my eyes. What did I say?”
“You told me,” said Ginger, on reflection, “to get a job.”
“Well, yes. I put it much better than that, but that's what it amounted to, I suppose. All right, then. I'm glad you...”
Ginger was eyeing her with mournful devotion. “I say,” he interrupted, “I wish you'd let me write to you. Letters, I mean, and all that. I have an idea it would kind of buck me up.”
“You won't have time for writing letters.”
“I'll have time to write them to you. You haven't an address or anything of that sort in America, have you, by any chance? I mean, so that I'd know where to write to.”
“I can give you an address which will always find me.” She told him the number and street of Mrs. Meecher's boarding-house, and he wrote them down reverently on his shirt-cuff. “Yes, on second thoughts, do write,” she said. “Of course, I shall want to know how you've got on. I... oh, my goodness! That clock's not right?”
“Just about. What time does your train go?”
“Go! It's gone! Or, at least, it goes in about two seconds.” She made a rush for the swing-door, to the confusion of the uniformed official who had not been expecting this sudden activity. “Good-bye, Ginger. Write to me, and remember what I said.”
Ginger, alert after his unexpected fashion when it became a question of physical action, had followed her through the swing-door, and they emerged together and started running down the square.
“Stick it!” said Ginger, encouragingly. He was running easily and well, as becomes a man who, in his day, had been a snip for his international at scrum-half.
Sally saved her breath. The train was beginning to move slowly out of the station as they sprinted abreast on to the platform. Ginger dived for the nearest door, wrenched it open, gathered Sally neatly in his arms, and flung her in. She landed squarely on the toes of a man who occupied the corner seat, and,
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