some other less clear reason. He really did not know
himself, and did not try to think; there seemed little object in doing
so, seeing that incident was closed.

The next day he went north, and by accident travelled part of the way
with a lady of his acquaintance. She was young, not more than five or
six and twenty, nice looking too, and very well dressed. She had a lot
of small impediments with her--a cloak, a dressing-bag, sunshade,
umbrella, golf clubs--some one, no doubt, would come and clear her
when the destination was reached; in the mean time, she and her
belongings were an eminently feminine presence. She talked pleasantly
of what had happened since they last met; she had been to Baireuth
that summer, she told him, and spoke intelligently of the music, the
technique and the beauty of it, and what it stood for. She was
surprised to hear he had got no further than Holland, and more
surprised still that he had not even seen Rembrandt's masterpiece
while he was there. Her voice was smooth and even, a little loud,
perhaps, from her spending much time out of doors, not in the least
given to those subtle changes of tone which express what is not said;
but as she never wanted to express any such things, that did not
matter.

She did not bore him with too much conversation; she had papers with
her--some three or four, and she glanced at them between whiles.
Afterwards she commented on their contents--the political situation,
the war (there is always a war somewhere), the cricket news, the new
books; touching lightly, but intelligently, on each topic in turn.

Rawson-Clew listened and answered, polite and mildly interested. It
was some time since he had heard this agreeable kind of conversation,
and since he had come in contact with this agreeable kind of person.
He ought to have appreciated it more, as men appreciate the charm of
drawing-rooms who have long been banished from them. He came to the
conclusion that he must be growing old, not to prefer the society of a
pretty, agreeable and well-dressed woman to an empty railway carriage.

The girl had two fine carnations in her coat; the stalks were rather
long, and so had got bruised. She regretted this, and Rawson-Clew
offered to cut them for her. He began to feel for a knife in likely
and unlikely pockets, and it was then that he first noticed a faint,
sweet smell; dry, not strong at all, more a memory than a scent. He
did not recognise what it was, nor from where