Doubtless the word stung more than the blow. A madness grew in his eyes.
“By Heavens, I’ll kiss you for that!” he cried—and let her go with a stifled curse. The girl sank into her corner, ruddy. The man sat down, ghastly.
The corridor door was drawn back by a young woman in rather fashionable attire. In her left hand she had a “sevenpenny,” a finger marking the place. Without a glance at either occupant she stepped in and, leaving the door open, seated herself and began to read.
Kitty had again turned her face to the window, and soon the shameful glow faded, leaving her pale. The natural reaction came, and she wanted to cry. Symington’s colour, on the other hand, had risen. Once more he sat opposite, looking hot and sulky. After a little while he produced his cigarette case, but he put it back unopened. He would have given something for a newspaper though it had been a week old. He was furious with the intruder, and now and then took a stealthy glance at her which might possibly have alarmed her had she observed it. Now and then, also, he took such a glance at Kitty, and at last discovered that she was on the verge of tears. Confound it! she must not be allowed to make a scene. He transferred himself to her side.
“Look here, Kitty, it’s all right,” he whispered, and surreptitiously put his hand on her elbow.
She started as if from pollution. “Can’t you leave me alone?” she said under her breath. “I’ll never want to see you again, but I’ll hate you a little less, perhaps, if you go back to the compartment you came from—anywhere out of this.”
Nettled, he replied, “You may as well make up your mind that I’m going to see you start safe in London.”
She drew away from him as far as possible and resumed her study of the darkness.
Symington, trying to look as if he had not been rebuffed, lay back, folded his arms and stared openly, rather rudely at the intruder, who was now making a pencil jotting on the fly-leaf of her book. When she had finished writing she went back to the printed page, read for a few moments, and stopped as if an idea had struck her. She put up her hand and pressed the button labelled “Attendant.” Then she returned to the story.
It was beginning to dawn on Symington that she was not a bad looking girl, though she must be a pure idiot, when a steward from the sleeping-car appeared in the doorway. The man saluted the girl respectfully, and as though he were pleased to see her.