"

"Only a little."

"You look as if you might be."

"What? A little?"

"No; I should think you had it badly."

"Thank you. And you haven't it at all?"

"I like opera."

"The hybrid form--and the lowest!"

"That's why it suits me. Don't you like it, though?"

"Yes; that's why I'm going up to London."

"Really? Are you a subscriber?"

"This season."

"So am I. Jolly--I shall see you."

Gyp smiled. It was so long since she had talked to a man of her own
age, so long since she had seen a face that roused her curiosity and
admiration, so long since she had been admired. The sun-shaft, shifted
by a westward trend of the train, bathed her from the knees up; and its
warmth increased her light-hearted sense of being in luck--above her
fate, instead of under it.

Astounding how much can be talked of in two or three hours of a railway
journey! And what a friendly after-warmth clings round those hours! Does
the difficulty of making oneself heard provoke confidential utterance?
Or is it the isolation or the continual vibration that carries
friendship faster and further than will a spasmodic acquaintanceship
of weeks? But in that long talk he was far the more voluble. There was,
too, much of which she could not speak. Besides, she liked to listen.
His slightly drawling voice fascinated her--his audacious, often witty
way of putting things, and the irrepressible bubble of laughter that
would keep breaking from him. He disclosed his past, such as it was,
freely--public-school and college life, efforts at the bar, ambitions,
tastes, even his scrapes. And in this spontaneous unfolding there was
perpetual flattery; Gyp felt through it all, as pretty women will, a
sort of subtle admiration. Presently he asked her if she played piquet.

"Yes; I play with my father nearly every evening."

"Shall we have a game, then?"

She knew he only wanted to play because he could sit nearer, joined by
the evening paper over their knees, hand her the cards after dealing,
touch her hand by accident, look in her face. And this was not
unpleasant; for she, in turn, liked looking at his face, which had
what is called "charm"--that something light and unepiscopal, entirely
lacking to so many solid, handsome, admirable faces.

But even railway journeys come to an end; and when he gripped her hand
to say good-bye, she gave his an involuntary little squeeze. Standing
at her cab window, with his hat raised, the old dog under his arm, and a