“I have nothing to say, Mr. Symington.”
“You’re thinking of last night—or, to be correct, the night before last. Well, I’m glad of this chance of apologizing. I’m sorry I struck the postman, but I was mad with the man for interfering, you know. I had something to tell you, Kitty, something I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time. . . . Well, are you going to forgive me?”
“You had better ask Sam that. You didn’t hurt me—you only disgusted me. I think you should try to find a seat in another compartment.” She was quite cool now. Indeed, she was not sorry to have the opportunity of humiliating him for Sam’s sake.
At her words his face took on a dusky shade, but he asked quietly enough, “Is that quite fair, Kitty?”
“You have no right to my name.” Had she owned a book then she would have opened it. She turned to the window, let up the blind, and sought to ignore him by peering out into the darkness; but if she thought thus to get rid of his company, or even silence him, she was mistaken.
“You are a very foolish little girl,” he said presently. “Here you are, running away to London, where you haven’t a friend—”
“Who told you that?” she demanded, turning on him.
“Well, have you?”
“Yes!” It was true. She had suddenly remembered that Colin was there, not that she expected ever to meet him. But the inspiration served her purpose: Symington was taken aback.
“Then it is some one your uncle does not know of,” he said sharply, and wished he had not spoken, for she was quick to retort—