th his recovered property,
and the news that the boat would not leave till the tide had turned, she
showed no concern.

"Not for two hours? How lucky--then I can find my trunk!"

Ordinarily Darrow would have felt little disposed to involve himself
in the adventure of a young female who had lost her trunk; but at the
moment he was glad of any pretext for activity. Even should he decide to
take the next up train from Dover he still had a yawning hour to fill;
and the obvious remedy was to devote it to the loveliness in distress
under his umbrella.

"You've lost a trunk? Let me see if I can find it."

It pleased him that she did not return the conventional "Oh, WOULD you?"
Instead, she corrected him with a laugh--"Not a trunk, but my trunk; I've
no other--" and then added briskly: "You'd better first see to getting
your own things on the boat."

This made him answer, as if to give substance to his plans by discussing
them: "I don't actually know that I'm going over."

"Not going over?"

"Well...perhaps not by this boat." Again he felt a stealing indecision.
"I may probably have to go back to London. I'm--I'm waiting...expecting
a letter...(She'll think me a defaulter," he reflected.) "But meanwhile
there's plenty of time to find your trunk."

He picked up his companion's bundles, and offered her an arm which
enabled her to press her slight person more closely under his umbrella;
and as, thus linked, they beat their way back to the platform, pulled
together and apart like marionettes on the wires of the wind, he
continued to wonder where he could have seen her. He had immediately
classed her as a compatriot; her small nose, her clear tints, a kind
of sketchy delicacy in her face, as though she had been brightly but
lightly washed in with water-colour, all confirmed the evidence of her
high sweet voice and of her quick incessant gestures. She was clearly an
American, but with the loose native quality strained through a closer
woof of manners: the composite product of an enquiring and adaptable
race. All this, however, did not help him to fit a name to her, for just
such instances were perpetually pouring through the London Embassy, and
the etched and angular American was becoming rarer than the fluid type.

More puzzling than the fact of his being unable to identify her was
the persistent sense connecting her with something uncomfortable and
distasteful. So pleasant a vision as that gleaming up at him between
wet