"Get back," he whispered, and I resumed my seat opposite him as the third occupant of the carriage began to stir her limbs like one awaking from sleep.
For the life of me I don't know why, but I had the feeling that it would be wrong to see her face as she opened her eyes. I somehow felt it would be like listening if she had talked in her sleep.
Milsom was collecting his impedimenta. "Change here," he said, yawning, and hauled the reluctant spaniel from under the seat. "This train goes on to London. Heigh-ho! Who wouldn't sell his little farm and go to sea?"
I was turning to get my rod down from the rack when I saw the girl give a little start and shoot a swift interrogatory glance at Milsom over her shoulder. It was the first symptom of interest she had shown in either of us. But after Milsom and I had disembarked on to the platform, and the train began slowly to resume its journey Londonwards, I saw her knit her handsome brows and stare rather curiously at Milsom from the window of the moving train.
We stood beside our luggage in silence, watching the train pass from sight round a distant curve in the line.
Then I turned to Milsom. "Now," I said, "what did all those billets doux you wrote me mean?"
He looked at me quizzically. "Sure you saw no one there?"
"What d'you mean—reflected in the window?"
He nodded, with a smile hovering about the corners of his mouth.
"No, of course I didn't. There were only three of us in the carriage, and from where we were sitting—all facing the engine—that window couldn't catch the reflection of any of us. I've forgotten most of the optics I ever learned, but I remember enough to be sure of that."