She looked as if she did, thought Kitty, venturing for the first time to take note of her new friend’s appearance. Hilda inclined to fairness. Her hair was a pale brown without tinge of red, and her fine skin was almost pale, though the lips were warmly coloured. Her nose was short and straight, her chin, while nicely rounded, hinted at a certain boldness—not aggressiveness—of character. Her dark, bluish-grey eyes were unusually wide-set, and this peculiarity—for it was such—affected you first as merely piquant, but ere long as very charming with its suggestion of sincerity and honesty. She was probably six or seven years older than Kitty. She chatted on about herself and her work till she saw that Kitty had made a fair meal.
“Feeling pretty fit now, aren’t you?” she said encouragingly, and rang the bell.
“Oh, quite different; I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Risk,” Kitty said gratefully. “You’ve been so good to me—and you don’t know a thing about me.”
“May I ask two questions?”
“Ask anything—please.”
“Just two for the present. Have you friends meeting you at Euston?”
“No.”
“And where do you want to go on your arrival in London?”
“I—don’t know.”
Hilda nodded gravely. “I see you have a story,” she said, “but even if you wish to tell it, I want you to keep it back—for the present, at any rate. You and I must have a nap, or we shall be mere wrecks at the end of the journey—and I’ve pages to cover before lunch-time. Ah, here he comes!”