The Splendid Folly | Page 6

herself at last comfortably
installed in a corner seat of a first-class carriage. She glanced about her
to make sure that she had not mislaid any of her hand baggage in her
frantic haste, and this point being settled to her satisfaction, she
proceeded to take stock of her fellow-traveller, for there was one other
person in the compartment besides herself.
He was sitting in the corner furthest away, his back to the engine,
apparently entirely oblivious of her presence. On his knee rested a
quarto writing-pad, and he appeared so much absorbed in what he was
writing that Diana doubted whether he had even heard the commotion,
occasioned by her sudden entry.
But she was mistaken. As the porter had bundled her into the carriage,
the man in the corner had raised a pair of deep-set blue eyes, looked at
her for a moment with a half-startled glance, and then, with the barest
flicker of a smile, had let his eyes drop once more upon his writing-pad.
Then he crossed out the word "Kismet," which he had inadvertently
written.
Diana regarded him with interest. He was probably an author, she
decided, and since a year's training as a professional singer had brought
her into contact with all kinds of people who earned their livings by
their brains, as she herself hoped to do some day, she instantly felt a
friendly interest in him. She liked, too, the shape of the hand that held
the fountain-pen; it was a slender, sensitive-looking member with
well-kept nails, and Diana always appreciated nice hands. The man's
head was bent over his work, so that she could only obtain a

foreshortened glimpse of his face, but he possessed a supple length of
limb that even the heavy travelling-rug tucked around his knees failed
to disguise, and there was a certain _soigné_ air of rightness about the
way he wore his clothes which pleased her.
Suddenly becoming conscious that she was staring rather openly, she
turned her eyes away and looked out of the window, and immediately
encountered a big broad label, pasted on to the glass, with the word
"_Reserved_" printed on it in capital letters. The letters, of course,
appeared reversed to any one inside the carriage, but they were so big
and black and hectoring that they were quite easily deciphered.
Evidently, in his violent haste to get her on board the train, the porter
had thrust her into the privacy of some one's reserved compartment that
some one being the man opposite. What a horrible predicament! Diana
felt hot all over with embarrassment, and, starting to her feet,
stammered out a confused apology.
The man in the corner raised his head.
"It does not matter in the least," he assured her indifferently. "Please do
not distress yourself. I believe the train is very crowded; you had better
sit down again."
The chilly lack of interest in his tones struck Diana with an odd sense
of familiarity, but she was too preoccupied to dwell on it, and began
hastily to collect together her dressing-case and other odds and ends.
"I'll find another seat," she said stiffly, and made her way out into the
corridor of the rocking train.
Her search, however, proved quite futile; every compartment was
packed with people hurrying out of town for Easter, and in a few
moments she returned.
"I'm sorry," she said, rather shyly. "Every seat is taken. I'm afraid you'll
have to put up with me."

Just then the carriage gave a violent lurch, as the express swung around
a bend, and Diana, dropping everything she held, made a frantic clutch
at the rack above her head, while her goods and chattels shot across the
floor, her dressing-case sliding gaily along till its wild career was
checked against the foot of the man in the corner.
With an air of resignation he rose and retrieved her belongings, placing
them on the seat opposite her.
"It would have been better if you had taken my advice," he observed,
with a sort of weary patience.
Diana felt unreasonably angry with him.
"Why don't you say 'I told you so' at once?" she said tartly.
A whimsical smile crossed his face.
"Well, I did, didn't I?"
He stood for a moment looking down at her, steadying himself with
one hand against the doorway, and her ill-humour vanishing as quickly
as it had arisen, she returned the smile.
"Yes, you did. And you were quite right, too," she acknowledged
frankly.
He laughed outright.
"Well done!" he cried. "Not one woman in twenty will own herself in
the wrong as a rule."
Diana frowned.
"I don't agree with you at all," she bristled. "Men have a ridiculous way
of lumping all women together and then generalising about them."
"Let's discuss the question," he