Returning to her own compartment, not without a secret intention of glancing in at Mrs and Miss Smith as she passed, Zoe had a narrow escape of falling headlong over a travelling-bag which the younger lady, with reckless disregard for the safety of the public, was thrusting out into the corridor. The offender was profuse in her apologies.
“Oh, how careless I am!” she cried. “You might have hurt yourself seriously. I should never have forgiven myself if my negligence had injured you, of all people.”
“Your malignity, rather, for it’s quite clear you did it on purpose,” was Zoe’s mental comment. “Why am I so much more precious than all the other people on board?” she asked.
“Oh, because——” with arch hesitation—“because of that mistake about our names, you know, and because you and I are the only young girls in the train. Certainly we ought to help one another.”
“I should say you needed about as little help as any person I know. And you needn’t try to flirt with me!” thought the unbelieving Zoe. “How could I help you?” she inquired aloud.
“Oh, come and talk to me a little. My aunt is always sleeping. I feel idle. All the people in the train have some acquaintance, some occupation, except ourselves”—she indicated the slumbering Mrs Smith and herself. “Even you are doubtless travelling for the sake of the business of your respectable brother? Oh!” as she caught the shadow of a smile on Zoe’s face, “is that bad English? Now you see what help you can give me in teaching me to speak my own language.”
“Oh, we have no business to see to; we are only out on a spree—if you know that word?” said Zoe wickedly. “My brother has just done with college, and we felt he deserved a holiday. If we have any business, it’s mine—looking for local colour. You know what that is—the stuff which you have to put into a book if you’re writing it, but which you always skip in reading it? Everybody that knows about my writing is always saying, ‘Oh, you must travel. It will enlarge your mind so much, and think of the local colour you will gain!’ I have note-books crammed full of local colour, only waiting for the stories which are to bring it in, and the worst of it is that when I do write anything, I am always so frightfully interested in the people that the local colour gets crowded out.”
Miss Smith looked somewhat bewildered by this fragment of literary autobiography. “Then you are an author—a Bohemian?” she said, with a distinct touch of disapproval.
“An author? Well, in a sort of way—a very humble way at present. But a Bohemian—oh, no! I only wish I was! Who ever heard such a stolid, steady-going name as Smith associated with Bohemianism?—— I knew it! I knew her name wasn’t Smith!” she told herself delightedly, noticing that the other girl did not wince.
“And I have not even the excuse of looking for local colour!” remarked the self-styled Miss Smith. “I wanted to travel—to be really English—and I made my aunt come. She is a foreigner—you may have noticed?—and she has brought me up abroad with her.”