A new expression--a new daring--swept the boy's mobile face. A spirit of
raillery gleamed in his eyes, and he smiled for the first time.

"How old, monsieur?"

The question, the smile touched Blake anew. He laughed involuntarily
with a sudden sense of friendliness.

"Sixteen?--seventeen?"

The boy, still smiling, shook his head.

"Guess again, monsieur."

Blake's interest flashed out. Here, in the gray station, in this damp
hour of dawn, he had touched something magnetic--some force that drew
and held him. A quality intangible and indescribable seemed to emanate
from this unknown boy, some strange radiance of vitality that flooded
his surroundings as with sunshine.

"Eighteen, then!" He laughed once more, with a curious sense of
pleasure.

But from the corridor outside a slow voice was borne back on the damp,
close air, forbidding further parley.

"Blake! I say, Blake! For the Lord's sake, get a move on!"

The spell was broken, the moment of companionship passed. Blake drifted
toward the carriage door, the boy following.