"There's something about that girl," thought Shelton, "they don't
like." Her brown eyes certainly looked frightened, her clothes were of
a foreign cut. Suddenly he met the glance of another pair of eyes; these
eyes, prominent and blue, stared with a sort of subtle roguery from
above a thin, lopsided nose, and were at once averted. They gave Shelton
the impression that he was being judged, and mocked, enticed, initiated.
His own gaze did not fall; this sanguine face, with its two-day growth
of reddish beard, long nose, full lips, and irony, puzzled him. "A
cynical face!" he thought, and then, "but sensitive!" and then, "too
cynical," again.

The young man who owned it sat with his legs parted at the knees, his
dusty trouser-ends and boots slanting back beneath the seat, his
yellow finger-tips crisped as if rolling cigarettes. A strange air of
detachment was about that youthful, shabby figure, and not a scrap of
luggage filled the rack above his head.

The frightened girl was sitting next this pagan personality; it was
possibly the lack of fashion in his looks that caused, her to select him
for her confidence.

"Monsieur," she asked, "do you speak French?"

"Perfectly."

"Then can you tell me where they take the tickets?

"The young man shook his head.