stretched her long slim body down beside her mother, she slipped her hand under her mother's arm—around her waist, as she always did when she went to sleep—though she hadn't last night.
"Mother," she whispered, "aren't you going to forgive me pretty soon?"
Stella pressed the precious hand, drew it closely around her.
"Of course I am, you crazy kid," she whispered back. "I don't care what you do, just so I've got you to do it. Gosh, I can't stay mad with you any longer!"
Laurel's arm tightened. That was all right then. Oh, if only Richard—if only he—her arm loosened, grew limp. Laurel fell to sleep almost immediately. So did Stella. They both had been asleep for an hour or more when the hotel train whistled into the Junction at about half-past ten.
4
Laurel was drifting off into unconsciousness for the second time when she became aware of her name being spoken, just outside the heavy curtain of the berth. She had been dimly aware of voices conversing in low tones for five or ten minutes before the sound of her own name prodded her wide awake. The section opposite had not been made up when she and her mother went to bed. Probably, Laurel concluded, some of the people who had come down on the evening train were sitting there and chatting.
"Yes, that very pretty dark girl, who was so popular with the younger set—lovely eyes. Laurel Dallas. Such an odd name."
