red-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.

'I thought I'd missed it!' ejaculated the intruder merrily.

Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance.
Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped his
forehead in silence.

He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of every
look. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fell
into a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger's
eyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it a
coarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar.
The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn't dislike
that shade of colour. He was humming a tune; it seemed to be his habit, and
it argued healthy cheerfulness. Meanwhile Mr. Whiston sat stiffly in his
corner, staring at the landscape, a model of respectable muteness.

At the first stop another man entered. This time, unmistakably, a
commercial traveller. At once a dialogue sprang up between him and Rufus.
The traveller complained that all the smoking compartments were full.

'Why,' exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, 'that reminds me that I wanted a
smoke. I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.'

The traveller's 'line' was tobacco; they talked tobacco--Rufus with much
gusto. Presently the conversation took a wider scope.

'I envy you,' cried Rufus, 'always travelling about. I'm in a beastly
office, and get only a fortnight off once a year. I enjoy it, I can tell