“Oh,” said Kitty, wiping her eyes with one hand and groping for the stranger’s with the other, “the relief was too much for me. How can I ever thank you for being so kind and c-clever!”
“You can postpone that till another day, Miss Carstairs—don’t be alarmed: I saw it on your luggage,” the other said, with a reassuring handclasp. “Mine’s Hilda Risk, though I’m quite a cautious person, as a rule. To-night I made an exception,” she went on, giving Kitty time to recover herself, “and interfered in a way that must have seemed rather extraordinary to you. But I simply couldn’t help it. I noticed you before you got into the train, and I saw you were troubled and nervous. I noticed the—oh, well, the gentleman arrive at the last moment and get on board after glaring about him. And as I happened to be just next door to you, and in a seat next the corridor, I observed him prowling along, ever so often, and taking stock of your compartment. And every time he appeared, I admired him less—I hardly know why. And the last time he came I saw him grin. And when he entered your compartment I tried calling myself a fool, and telling myself it was none of my business, but I couldn’t rest, and after a little while I took the chance of putting my foot in it dreadfully—and you know the rest. Feeling better now?”
“Oh, yes, thank you,” Kitty answered, turning her attention from her eyes to her pretty hair. “But you were so cool!”
“I suppose I was. Once I’ve made up my mind to do a thing, I get that way. Besides, I’m never afraid of a man!”
“Never afraid of a man!” cried Kitty in tones of such amazement that her new friend checked a laugh.
“No; because, you see, a man in his soul is always afraid of a woman. It’s a useful thing to remember, Miss Carstairs.”
“But—but do you—hate men?”
“On the contrary! Most of my friends are men. Here comes the tea; now we’ll be happy!” The attendant placed the tray on the seat, beamed on Miss Risk and withdrew.
Kitty looked like crying again.
“I believe you’re hungry,” said Hilda. “Fall to on the bread and butter, and I’ll pour out. It requires a little practice, you know.” She proceeded to talk about herself, explaining, much to Kitty’s interest, that she was a journalist. “Most of my work consists of ‘specials’ for The Lady’s Mirror, rather a swagger weekly, though quite young. I ‘do’ all sorts of big functions, swell weddings, and so forth. I’ve a knack for making dreary things look bright in print, also a knack for making the dull remarks of prominent persons seem brilliant. These are the chief reasons, I fancy, why the Editor sends me all the way from London instead of employing some one on the spot. I have just come from Aberdeen, and if you read my article in the next week’s Mirror, you will imagine that I was in fairyland instead of in the worst of weather, at a damaged garden party, among a few hundred ordinary humans who wished themselves at home! But I enjoyed myself—I generally do.”