jumped in. He seemed not to hear her. The train did not stop before it
reached Cambridge, and here she was shut up alone, in a railway
carriage, with a young man.

She touched the spring of her dressing-case, and ascertained that the
scent-bottle and a novel from Mudie's were both handy (the young man was
standing up with his back to her, putting his bag in the rack). She
would throw the scent-bottle with her right hand, she decided, and tug
the communication cord with her left. She was fifty years of age, and
had a son at college. Nevertheless, it is a fact that men are dangerous.
She read half a column of her newspaper; then stealthily looked over the
edge to decide the question of safety by the infallible test of
appearance.... She would like to offer him her paper. But do young men
read the Morning Post? She looked to see what he was reading--the Daily
Telegraph.

Taking note of socks (loose), of tie (shabby), she once more reached his
face. She dwelt upon his mouth. The lips were shut. The eyes bent down,
since he was reading. All was firm, yet youthful, indifferent,
unconscious--as for knocking one down! No, no, no! She looked out of the
window, smiling slightly now, and then came back again, for he didn't
notice her. Grave, unconscious... now he looked up, past her... he
seemed so out of place, somehow, alone with an elderly lady... then he
fixed his eyes--which were blue--on the landscape. He had not realized
her presence, she thought. Yet it was none of HER fault that this was
not a smoking-carriage--if that was what he meant.

Nobody sees any one as he is, let alone an elderly lady sitting opposite
a strange young man in a railway carriage. They see a whole--they see
all sorts of things--they see themselves.... Mrs. Norman now read three