eyes on vacancy, she felt the approach of the young man, who for the moment
was alone with her. She saw him at her side: she heard his voice.

'I can't help it. I want to speak to you. May I?'

Rose faltered a reply.

'It was so kind to bring the flowers. I didn't thank you properly.'

'It's now or never,' pursued the young man in rapid, excited tones. 'Will
you let me tell you my name? Will you tell me yours?'

Rose's silence consented. The daring Rufus rent a page from a pocket-book,
scribbled his name and address, gave it to Rose. He rent out another page,
offered it to Rose with the pencil, and in a moment had secured the
precious scrap of paper in his pocket. Scarce was the transaction completed
when a stranger jumped in. The young man bounded to his own corner, just in
time to see the return of Mr. Whiston, glass in hand.

During the rest of the journey Rose was in the strangest state of mind. She
did not feel in the least ashamed of herself. It seemed to her that what
had happened was wholly natural and simple. The extraordinary thing was
that she must sit silent and with cold countenance at the distance of a few
feet from a person with whom she ardently desired to converse. Sudden
illumination had wholly changed the aspect of life. She seemed to be
playing a part in a grotesque comedy rather than living in a world of grave
realities. Her father's dignified silence struck her as intolerably absurd.
She could have burst into laughter; at moments she was indignant,
irritated, tremulous with the spirit of revolt. She detected a glance of
frigid superiority with which Mr. Whiston chanced to survey the other