‘Why,’ exclaimed Rufus, with a laugh, ’that reminds me that I wanted a smoke.  I never thought about it till now; jumped in here in a hurry.’

The traveller’s ‘line’ was tobacco; they talked tobacco—­Rufus with much gusto.  Presently the conversation took a wider scope.

‘I envy you,’ cried Rufus, ’always travelling about.  I’m in a beastly office, and get only a fortnight off once a year.  I enjoy it, I can tell you!  Time’s up today, worse luck!  I’ve a good mind to emigrate.  Can you give me a tip about the colonies?’

He talked of how he had spent his holiday.  Rose missed not a word, and her blood pulsed in sympathy with the joy of freedom which he expressed.  She did not mind his occasional slang; the tone was manly and right-hearted; it evinced a certain simplicity of feeling by no means common in men, whether gentle or other.  At a certain moment the girl was impelled to steal a glimpse of his face.  After all, was it really so plain?  The features seemed to her to have a certain refinement which she had not noticed before.

‘I’m going to try for a smoker,’ said the man of commerce, as the train slackened into a busy station.

Rufus hesitated.  His eye wandered.

‘I think I shall stay where I am,’ he ended by saying.

In that same moment, for the first time, Rose met his glance.  She saw that his eyes did not at once avert themselves; they had a singular expression, a smile which pleaded pardon for its audacity.  And Rose, even whilst turning away, smiled in response.

The train stopped.  The commercial traveller alighted.  Rose, leaning towards her father, whispered that she was thirsty; would he get her a glass of milk or of lemonade?  Though little disposed to rush on such errands, Mr. Whiston had no choice but to comply; he sped at once for the refreshment-room.

And Rose knew what would happen; she knew perfectly.  Sitting rigid, her 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.