"We can say good-by here as
well as on the platform."
"I don't think so," I said.
"I have already said good-by to all my other friends!"
"But I refuse to be treated just like all the others," and I started
with her down the gang-plank.
She looked at me from the corner of her eyes, her lips trembling
between indignation and amusement.
"Do you know," she said deliberately, "I am beginning to fear that you
are obstinate, and I abhor obstinate people."
"I'm not at all obstinate," I objected. "I'm simply contending for my
rights."
"Your rights?"
"My right to be with you as long as I can, for one."
"Are there others?"
"Many others. Shall I enumerate them?"
"No," she said, "we haven't time. Here is mother."
They were to take the company's special train to Paris, which was
waiting on the wharf, two hundred feet away, and we slowly pushed our
way toward it. In the clamor and hurry and confusion wholly Latin,
there was no chance for intelligent converse. The place was swarming
with people, each of them, as it seemed to me, on the verge of
hysteria. Someone, somewhere, was shouting "_En voiture!_" in a
stentorian voice. Suddenly, we found our way blocked by a uniformed
official, who demanded to see our tickets.
"You can't come any farther, I'm afraid," said Mrs.
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