“Odd chap?” he said. “Most men would prefer to remain on the spot, even if their presence wasn’t actually needed.”
“The journey may be a matter of necessity,” she said.
“It may be, of course.” He lifted the last bag up to the rack and sat down opposite to her and unrolled a bundle of papers. “We ran it rather fine, old girl. The next time I take you on a holiday I hope you’ll get forrader with your preparations.”
“You old Adam, you!” she said, smiling, and leaned forward to pat his knee.
And the man in the next compartment sat and smoked and meditated gloomily, while the train ran on through fertile grass-veld towards the mountains and the sterile plain which lay beyond them.
In the vexation of seeing people he knew on the train, Hallam’s first thought had been to leave it at a convenient stopping place and wait for the next train and so resume his journey; but on reflection this idea seemed a little absurd. Of what interest could his movements possibly be to the Garfields? They would leave the train in all probability long before he did, and the greatest inconvenience their presence would cause him would be an occasional and brief encounter.
The first encounter occurred very speedily: Mr Garfield came to his compartment and stood in the corridor and inquired after his wife. He expressed much sympathy with Hallam.
“We were shocked,” he said, “when we heard. My wife called at the nursing-home, but she wasn’t allowed to see Mrs Hallam. I trust she is doing well?”
“The doctor tells me so,” Hallam answered, with what the other man considered a curious lack of feeling. “She is too ill at present to see any one.”
The talk hung for a while. Mr Garfield, who never felt at his ease with Hallam, was none the less profoundly sorry for the man. He believed that the callous manner was assumed to cloak his real feelings. The haggard face and sombre eyes betokened considerable mental anguish.