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now,” Hampton said. “It seems he has other matters to attend to, and that in turn freed me. Would you care for some company?”
    Carolina knew that it wouldn’t matter whether she desired his companionship or not. Hampton had clearly made up his mind to join her, and it would be unthinkably rude to reject him at this point.
    “By all means. There are many wonderful volumes on the shelf,” she said, glancing around the room. “You have but to pick one and find a comfortable chair.”
    Hampton laughed and closed the door. He was dressed smartly in a navy blue suit with a plumb-colored satin waistcoat and heavily starched white shirt. His blond hair had been carefully styled away from his broad face, and his blue eyes seemed delighted with what they observed in Carolina.
    “I thought perhaps we could talk,” he said. “Unless, of course, you would like for me to read to you. Perhaps romantic poetry?”
    Carolina could not refrain from grimacing. The very idea of Hampton Cabot offering up words of love in this manner was something she could not tolerate.
    “No, thank you. I haven’t much interest in poetry at this moment. I’ve been reading about safety valves in steam engines. Perhaps you are familiar with them?” Carolina asked, leaning her face against her hand as though completely enraptured.
    “I assure you, I am not,” Hampton said, flashing her a smile. “But I am familiar with the words of Shakespeare. ‘See! how she leans her cheek upon her hand: O! that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek.’ ”
    Carolina instantly regained her previous composure and returned her attention to the journal in front of her. “Safety valves . . . are . . . uh . . . necessary to keep the boiler from building up too much steam.” She tried to infuse her next words with detached calm. “If boilers build up too much pressure they will explode.”
    Hampton grinned in a wickedly leering manner. “People are like that, too. Steam is quite like passion, don’t you think?”
    Carolina ignored the question. “The safety valves open when the pressure builds too high, and they close again when the steam is released. This way a steady pressure can be maintained. Of course, the ideal way to maintain it is neither to feed the fire with too much nor too little fuel. This way you don’t waste the steam.”
    “And love, too, must be steadily fed,” Hampton said, refusing to give in to her railroad talk. “ ‘Chameleons feed on light and air:
    Poets’ food is love and fame.’ That’s in the Shelley book I brought you.”
    Carolina closed the journal and looked at him squarely. “Quote all the poetry you like, Mr. Cabot. It will not change my love of the railroad, nor my disinterest in you.”
    “I think you like me more than you want to admit,” Hampton said, seemingly unmoved by her harsh statement. “I think you’re a little bit spoiled, and because your father has given you much too much freedom, you don’t realize what you were intended for. I suggest if you want to occupy yourself you could make a better time of it over here with me.” He patted the sofa invitingly.
    “I’m not merely seeking to occupy myself, as you put it. I enjoy learning about the railroad and the development of our country. I enjoy expanding my mind to include new subjects, and how dare you call me spoiled? You don’t even know me.” Carolina felt her face grow hot as her anger mounted.
    Hampton only laughed, which furthered her fury and caused her to get to her feet. Hampton, too, stood and lazily wandered over to the front of the desk. Feeling that the desk afforded her marginal security, Carolina refused to make peace between them.
    “You declare yourself interested in me, Mr. Cabot, yet I find you have no real interest in the things on which I feel strongly about. You belittle me and cause me grief, all the while spouting poetry and talk of love. If you cared about how I feel . . .”
    “Oh, but I do care,”