It passed, as such intervals do, and I found myself in a crowded compartment on the way to Glynde Junction. This second stage of my journey was a good deal occupied in observation of fellow-passengers. None of them was in any sense remarkable, but all human beings are more or less worth studying.
After a while the compartment began to empty, and I at the same time began to be aware that the train had lagged a good fifteen minutes behind time. No pleasant discovery this, since it probably meant the loss of the next train at Glynde Junction, and another long delay.
One old lady remained alone at the farther end of the carriage, nodding sleepily over a novel. A gentleman had stepped in at the last station, and had taken the corner opposite to me. While busily comparing watch and time-table, I had not noticed him; but a little while before reaching the Junction, I happened to glance up and met his eyes.
Evidently he had been examining me: no doubt from the same general interest in human beings to which I have confessed. He did not snatch away his eyes in the alarmed fashion of some people caught in the act, but met mine frankly. He might be, I supposed, under thirty: a gentleman every inch of him: in manner quiet, steadfast, entirely at his ease, and free from the least suspicion of self-consciousness. Mouth and chin were hidden by the brown moustache and beard, and more of the same soft brown hair receded in waves from the wide forehead. The eyes were singular, large and gentle as a woman's, pale brown in hue, with soft shading lashes, and set in hollowed-out caves, which, together with the delicately outlined temples and the slightness of the ungloved right hand, gave an impression of not very robust health.
I read at once in his look the unspoken question—"Is anything the matter?"
And my answer came involuntarily—
"I was wondering if there is any chance of my catching the train to Glynde."
"At the Junction? Yes; a chance, but a poor one."
"That train does not wait for this?"
"It is not supposed to do so."