"Oh," said Zora, taken aback by the emotionless manner in which he mentioned the tragedy. Then, by way of continuing the conversation:—
"Why are you called Septimus?"
"I'm the seventh son. All the others died young. I never could make out why I didn't."
"Perhaps," said Zora with a laugh, "you were thinking of something else at the time and lost the opportunity."
"It must have been that," said he. "I lose opportunities just as I always lose trains."
"How do you manage to get anywhere?"
"I wait for the next train. That's easy. But there's never another opportunity."
He drew a cigarette from his case, put it in his mouth, and fumbled in his pockets for matches. Finding none, he threw the cigarette into the road.
"That's just like you," cried Zora. "Why didn't you ask the cabman for a light?"
She laughed at him with an odd sense of intimacy, though she had known him for scarcely an hour. He seemed rather a stray child than a man. She longed to befriend him—to do something for him, motherwise—she knew not what. Her adventure by now had failed to be adventurous. The spice of danger had vanished. She knew she could sit beside this helpless being till the day of doom without fear of molestation by word or act.