Mr. Priestley fixed a hot gaze on an advertisement containing some pithy advice to mothers. “I—well, I don’t think it’s right,” he said uncomfortably.
There was a short but tense silence. The train shrieked to a standstill.
“I think I’d better get out here,” murmured Mr. Priestley unhappily, still learning what to do if he ever became a mother.
“Here’s your ticket,” muttered Mr. Priestley, now blushing miserably all over.
The silence full of unutterable things into which his companion had retired, her face turned away from him, was broken by a curious sound. It was not exactly a sniff, nor was it a gulp, and it certainly was not a choke; but in some curious way it combined the essential elements of all three. Mr. Priestley, taken by surprise, turned and looked at her. As he did so he gave a violent start and quite forgot that the train was on the point of moving on from the station where he had planned a graceful exit. Her shoulders were heaving, and she was fumbling blindly in her ridiculous little bag. The next moment she drew out a still more ridiculous handkerchief and applied it to her eyes.
“God bless my soul!” Mr. Priestley petitioned.
“Good gracious me!” observed Mr. Priestley.
“Well, I never!” Mr. Priestley remarked.
“Here, I say, you mustn’t do that!” ordered Mr. Priestley, aghast.
“Please don’t cry!” Mr. Priestley implored, and incontinently abandoned all lingering thoughts about exits.