Clad for a long railway journey on a hot day; a grey figure of
fluent lines, of composedly decisive movements; a little felt hat
close-fitting to the spirited head, leaving full and frank the soft
rounded face, with its quietly observant eyes, its lips of contained
humour--Irene Derwent stepped from a cab at Euston Station and
went forward into the booking-office. From the box-seat of the same
vehicle descended a brisk, cheerful little man, looking rather like
a courier than an ordinary servant, who paid the cabman, saw to the
luggage, and, at a respectful distance, followed Miss Derwent along
the platform; it was Thibaut Rossignol.

Grey-clad also, with air no less calm and sufficient, a gentleman
carrying newspapers in Britannic abundance moved towards the train
which was about to start. Surveying for a moment, with distant
curiosity, the travellers about him, his eye fell upon that maiden
of the sunny countenance just as she was entering a carriage; he
stopped, insensibly drew himself together, subdued a smile, and
advanced for recognition.

"I am going to Liverpool, Miss Derwent. May I have the pleasure
----?"

"If you will promise not to talk politics, Mr. Jacks."

"I can't promise that. I want to talk politics."

"From here to Crewe?"

"As far as Rugby, let us say. After that--morphology, or some