The carriage-door burst open, and a man, panting with haste, flung a cape and a blue-covered English Review on to the seat opposite mine, drew his handkerchief over his brow with a “Phew!” that meant “Only just done it!” then leaped out again on to the platform, calling, “Porter! when is this train due off?”
“She ought to be off now, sir; we’ve been kept back by the boat, we’re ten minutes behind time.”
But it was not this that made me sit up and turn quickly to the man who’d dropped back into the seat opposite to me. Slim shape, soft hat, Vandyke profile—yes, I thought I’d recognized the voice. Sydney Vandeleur, of all people—and at this moment! At any other, I might have longed to pick up that English Review and hurl it at his picturesque head, but, for just this one occasion, I was overjoyed to see him. My employer wouldn’t be able to say any last words now, before him.
“Monica—Miss Trant!” exclaimed Sydney quickly. “How odd! Did you see her?”
“See whom?”
“Why, Cicely!”
Cicely! The tone in which he used her Christian name told me all there was to know, there! I’d thought so!
“I’ve been seeing her off, you know, to Ireland—the Dublin boat—just gone off.” He nodded towards the quay. “Had to get back to London to-night; I am meeting the Mamma in Pont Street to-morrow morning, and——”
“Take your seats, please! Take your seats!” The guard’s whistle was at his lips as my official fiancé came racing back along the platform. An armful of papers and magazines fell on to my lap.
“Here you are, Nancy. And, I say! I’m going to——”