"Oh, how-d'ye-do, Mr. Brooks?" said Edwin hastily, as if startled by the sudden inexplicable apparition of the head.
But the ticket-clerk had no Bradshaw either. He considered it probable, however, that the stationmaster would have a Bradshaw. Edwin had to brace himself again, for an assault upon the fastness of the stationmaster.
And in the incredibly small and incredibly dirty fastness of the stationmaster, they indeed found a Bradshaw. Hilda precipitately took it and opened it on the stationmaster's table. She looked for Brighton in it as she might have looked for a particular individual in a city. Then Edwin was bending over it, with his ear close to her ear, and the sleeve of his overcoat touching her sleeve. She was physically aware of him, for the first time. She thought, disconcerted: "But he is an utter stranger to me! What do I know of him?" And then she thought: "For more than a year he must have carried my image in his heart!"
"Here," said Edwin brusquely, and with a certain superiority, "you might just let me have a look at it myself."
She yielded, tacitly admitting that a woman was no match for Bradshaw.
After a few moments' frowning Edwin said:
"Yes, there's a train to Brighton at eleven-thirty to-night!"
"May I look?"
"Certainly," said he, subtly condescending.
She examined the page, with a serious deliberation.