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
other of your light topics."
It seemed possible that they might have the compartment to
themselves, for it was mid-August, and the tumult of northward
migration had ceased. Arnold Jacks, had he known a moment sooner,
would have settled it with the guard. He looked forbiddingly at a
man who approached; who, in his turn, stared haughtily and turned
away.
Irene beckoned to Thibaut, and from the window gave him a trivial
message for her father, speaking in French; Thibaut, happy to serve
her, put a world of chivalrous respect into his "Bien,
Mademoiselle!" Arnold Jacks averted his face and smiled.
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