Folk drew back from the train. There was a whistle. And then at the very last little moment of all, as the train pulled itself together for the start, her eyes met Edward’s eyes. And the other man saw the meeting, and he knew—which was more than Edward did.
So, when the light of life having been borne away in the retreating train, the broken-hearted group dispersed, the other man, whose name by the way was Vincent, linked his arm in Edward’s and asked cheerily: “Whither away, sweet nymph?”
“I’m off home,” said Edward. “The 7.20 to Calais.”
“Sick of Paris?”
“One has to see one’s people sometimes, don’t you know, hang it all!” was Edward’s way of expressing the longing that tore him for the old house among the brown woods of Kent.
“No attraction here now, eh?”
“The chief attraction has gone, certainly,” Edward made himself say.
“But there are as good fish in the sea?”
“Fishing isn’t my trade,” said Edward.
“The beautiful Rose!” said Vincent.
