"Oh, I beg your pardon! I ought to have moved it when you got in," said the stranger, placing it on her own side amidst her parcels. And Lucy, on her part, apologised for having thrown it down.
It served to break the ice of reserve: and for the next remaining minute or two they talked together. By the stranger beginning to gather together her parcels, Lucy saw she was preparing to get out at Foxwood.
"Are you about to make a stay in this neighbourhood?" she asked.
"For the present."
"It is a very charming spot. We hear the nightingales every evening."
"You are staying in it too, then?"
"Yes. It is my home."
The train came to a stand-still, and they got out. Foxwood station, after the manner of some other small rural stations, had its few buildings on one side only: the other was open to the high road, and to the fields beyond. In this road, drawn up close to the station, was a waiting fly, its door already open. The stranger, carrying some of her parcels, went straight up to it, supposing it was there for hire, and was about to get in.
"Beg pardon, ma'am," said the driver, "this here fly's engaged."
She, seemed vexed, disappointed: and looked up at him. "Are you sure?" she asked. Lucy was standing close by and heard.