Then I had a look round at my fellow-passengers, of whom there were three—a stout old gentleman and a young lady who seemed to be his daughter, and a dark-eyed keen-looking man who was seated opposite to me, and who held a newspaper in his hand and had a couple of books with him.
“I’d offer to lend you one,” he said, touching his books and smiling; “but you couldn’t read—I can’t. Horrible lights.”
Just then a heavy snore from the old gentleman made the young lady lean over to him and touch him, waking him up with a start.
The keen-looking man opposite to me raised his eyebrows and smiled slightly, shading his face from the other occupants with his newspaper.
Three or four times over the old gentleman dropped asleep and had to be roused up, and my fellow-passenger smiled good-humouredly and said:
“Might as well have let him sleep.”
This was in a whisper, and he made two or three remarks to me.
He seemed very much disposed to be friendly and pointed out the lights of a distant town or two.
“Got in at Arrowfield, didn’t you?” he said at last.
I replied that I did; and it was on the tip of my tongue to say, “So did you,” but I did not.