Democratic Sentinel, Volume 20, Number 50, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 18 December 1896 — DISPELLED THE ROMANCE. [ARTICLE]

DISPELLED THE ROMANCE.

What a Reporter Heard When the Commuters’ Train 81owed Up. The personality of each was so strong and attractive that the reporter had regarded them for some time, wondering what was their station In life. They were passengers on a Jersey Central suburban train, and they occupied the same seat. They were not man and wife. That was evident from her manner of drawing her upper lip across her teeth when she smiled at him, and froxu the polite nod of his head as he assented to her animated statements. She had a strong, handsome face, and was almost young—past 30 perhaps. Although she was plainly dressed, her hat was covered with expensive plume* and there were diamonds In her ears. Her hands were white and soft. Hei feet were shapely and well 6hod. There was an air about her" that marked her ns no ordinary mortal. She was a woman of force and brains. , He was of the stall-fed, mnn-of-the-world order; the sort who looks well dressed in a sls suit of clothes. Hie russet shoes had been polished on the ferry-boat, and silk socks showed above them, for in sitting down he had, of course, properly pulled up his trousers’ legs to prevent bagging at the knees. His eolored shirt bosom, set off with a diamond stud, gave him a “sporty” look, which was relieved by his intellectual face and his gray beard, trimmed to a geometric exactitude. AVliat was he? Hard to guess. He might be a merchant or a banker. He could be anything from a head clerk to a millionaire employer. A man and a woman to attract attention anywhere. What could they be discussing. It would he worth while to be an auditor. The merits of a new book, perhaps, or the summer’s experiences at the seashore, or the new library or church building in their town. The train slowed down approaching a station, and as the roar subsided her voice rose. “What! Three hundred! So many?” (Undoubtedly, the attendance at the ball.) “Why, we have only about seventy-five left. We’ killed a great many this summer and eat ’em. I find that when a hen gets to be over 3 years old she don’t pay for shucks, anyway.”—New York Mail- and Express.