The girl sprang up into her own compartment just as the train began to move. Her former fellow-traveller, who was near the door, caught her arm to help her in.
“You really should be more careful,” he said; “there is nothing so risky as waiting till the last moment.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Philippa, feeling guilty; “it was careless of me.”
She ensconced herself in her corner again, but with a sensation of annoyance, which even Solomon’s unmistakable satisfaction at her reappearance did not allay.
“How stupid I am,” she thought to herself, “always doing something or other to attract notice when I should be quite unobserved!” and her face, as she sat staring out of the window, had lost its former cheerful expression.
So, at least, it seemed to Solomon’s master, as in spite of himself he glanced at her more than once.
“There’s something uncommon about the girl,” he thought to himself, “hyper-sensitive, I should say, for her position—possibly she was born in a better one. I don’t see that there was anything to hurt her feelings in what I said just now.”
But he was essentially kind-hearted, and the worried look on the girl’s countenance, and the absent way in which she returned the little dog’s friendly demonstrations, made him feel sorry for her.
“Perhaps her mistress is down upon her, poor girl,” he thought; “some women must be terribly tyrannical to their servants.”
They travelled on in silence, however, for a considerable time. By degrees the aspect of the country through which they were passing changed for the better—a little exclamation of pleasure escaped Philippa involuntarily as a charming view burst upon them. It was that of a small lake, its shores beautifully wooded, with rising ground on the farther side.