And you have
only to remember that disgusting conversation about beer!'
Rose said no more. Her father pondered a little, felt that he had delivered
his soul, and resumed the book.
The next morning they were early at the station to secure good places for
the long journey to London. Up to almost the last moment it seemed that
they would have a carriage to themselves. Then the door suddenly opened, a
bag was flung on to the seat, and after it came a hot, panting man, a
red-haired man, recognised immediately by both the travellers.
'I thought I'd missed it!' ejaculated the intruder merrily.
Mr. Whiston turned his head away, disgust transforming his countenance.
Rose sat motionless, her eyes cast down. And the stranger mopped his
forehead in silence.
He glanced at her; he glanced again and again; and Rose was aware of every
look. It did not occur to her to feel offended. On the contrary, she fell
into a mood of tremulous pleasure, enhanced by every turn of the stranger's
eyes in her direction. At him she did not look, yet she saw him. Was it a
coarse face? she asked herself. Plain, perhaps, but decidedly not vulgar.
The red hair, she thought, was not disagreeably red; she didn't dislike
that shade of colour.
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