The passengers alight. Cyril gazes anxiously up and down the platform among the women, trying to discover which of them looks most likely to bear the name of Chesney.
A preternaturally tall young lady, with eyes like sloes and a very superior figure, attracts him most. She is apparently alone, and is looking round as though expecting some one. It is—it must be she.
Raising his hat, Cyril advances toward her and makes a slight bow, which is not returned. The sloes sparkle indignantly, the superior figure grows considerably more superior; and the young lady, turning as though for protection from this bad man who has so insolently and openly molested her in the broad daylight, lays her hand with an expression of relief upon the arm of a gentleman who has just joined her.
"I thought you were never coming," she says, in a clear distinct tone meant for Cyril's discomfiture, casting upon that depraved person a glance replete with scorn.
As her companion happens to be Harry Bellair of Belmont, Mr. Chetwoode is rather taken aback. He moves aside and colors faintly. Harry Bellair, who is a young gentleman addicted to huge plaids, and low hats, and three or four lockets on his watch chain, being evidently under the impression that Cyril has been "up to one of his larks," bestows upon him in passing a covert but odiously knowing wink, that has the effect of driving Cyril actually wild, and makes him give way to low expressions under his breath.
"Vulgar beast!" he says at length out loud with much unction, which happily affords him instant relief.
"Are you looking for me?" says a soft voice at his elbow, and turning he beholds a lovely childish face upturned somewhat timidly to his.
"Miss Chesney?" he asks, with hesitation, being mindful of his late defeat.
"Yes," smiling. "It is for me, then, you are looking? Oh,"—with a thankful sigh,—"I am so glad! I have wanted to ask you the question for two minutes, but I was afraid you might be the wrong person."
"I wish you had spoken," laughing: "you would have saved me from much ignominy. I fancied you something altogether different from what you are," with a glance full of kindly admiration,—"and I fear I made rather a fool of myself in consequence. I beg your pardon for having kept you so long in suspense, and especially for having in my ignorance mistaken you for that black-browed lady." Here he smiles down on the fair sweet little face that is smiling up at him.