In the corridor she administered another thrill—this time to a tall young man—a stranger, as alert for flirtation as a weasel for mischief. He huddled himself and his suitcases into as flat a space as possible, murmuring:
"These corridors are so narrow, aren't they?"
"Aren't they?" said Mrs. Jimmie. "So sorry to trouble you."
"Don't mention it."
She passed on, their glances fencing like playful foils. Then she paused:
"Excuse me. Could you lend me a match? They never have matches in the Women's Room."
He succeeded in producing a box after much shifting of burdens, and he was rewarded with a look and a phrase:
"You have saved my life."
He started to repeat his "Don't mention it," but it seemed inappropriate, so he said nothing, and she vanished behind a door. He turned away, saying to himself that it promised to be a pleasant journey. He was halted by another voice—another woman's voice:
"Pardon me, but is this the car for Reno?"