looked almost as benevolent as a sated tigress that kills just for the sport.
She was glad when Hare—his rebellious tuft sticking out like a feather—battled his way down the corridor, followed by the ticket-collector. He was a sturdy young man, in a very tight uniform and he reminded Iris of a toy soldier, with two blobs of crimson-colour on his broad cheeks and a tiny black waxed moustache.
As he entered the baroness spoke to him sharply and then waved to the professor to continue.
By this time Iris’ nerve was shattered; she was so sure that the ticket-collector would prove another victim to mass-hypnotism that she was prepared when Hare made a grimace.
“He’s telling the old, old story,” he said.
“Of course he is.” Iris tried to laugh. “I expect he was one of her peasants. He looks bucolic. She seems to own the lot—including you and the professor.”
“Now, don’t get het up,” he urged. “I know just what you are feeling, because I’ve been through this myself. I’ll tell you about it, if I can dislodge this young lady.”
The little girl, who had been making precocious eyes at Hare, responded to his invitation to move with shrugs and pouts of protest. All the same she reluctantly went back to her original place while he squeezed into the corner originally occupied by the elusive spinster.
“Cheer up,” he said. “Unless your Miss Froy was invisible, other people in the train must have seen her.”
“I know,” nodded Iris. “But I can’t think. My brain’s too sticky.”
The professor, who was just leaving the compartment, caught the drift of Hare’s argument, for he turned back to speak to Iris.
“If you can produce some definite proof of this lady’s existence, I’m still open to conviction. But I sincerely hope that you will not expose us and yourself to further ridicule.”
Iris felt too limp for defiance.
“Thank you,” she said meekly. “Where shall I find you?”
“In the reserved portion.”
“We’re sharing a bunny-hutch,” supplemented Hare. “Didn’t you know we’re rich? We started a prosperity chain.”
“I hate that man,” burst out Iris when the professor had gone.”
“Oh, no,” protested Hare, “he’s not a bad old fossil. You’ve got him scared stiff because you’re young and attractive.”
Then the grin faded from his lips.
“I want to bore you with a true story,” he said. “Some years ago, I was playing in an international at Twickenham. Just before the match both teams were presented to the Prince of Wales and he shook hands with all of us. Well, after I’d scored the winning try—I had to slip that in—I got kicked on the head in a scrum and passed out. Later on, when I was fairly comfortable in a private ward at the hospital, the nurse came in, all of a flutter, and said there was a special visitor to see me.”
“The Prince?” asked Iris, trying to force an intelligent interest.
“The same Of course, he didn’t stay more than a minute. Just smiled at me and said he hoped I’d soon be all right and he was sorry about my accident. I was so steamed up I thought I wouldn’t sleep a wink, but I dropped off the instant he had gone. Next morning the nurses said, “Weren’t you pleased to see your captain?”
“Captain?”
“Yes, the captain of the team. It was definitely
not
the Prince. And yet I saw him as plainly as I see you. He shook hands with me and said something nice about my try. He was
real
. And that’s what a spot of head trouble can do to the best of us.”
Iris set her lips obstinately.
“I thought you believed in me,” she said. “But you’re like the rest. Please go away.”
“I will, because I’m sure you ought to keep quiet. Try and get some sleep.”
“No. I’ve got to think this out. If I let myself believe all of you, I should be afraid I was getting mental. And I’m not. I’m
not
.”
“Now take it easy.”
“What a soothing nurse you’d make. You only want a silly cap.
She was glad when Hare—his rebellious tuft sticking out like a feather—battled his way down the corridor, followed by the ticket-collector. He was a sturdy young man, in a very tight uniform and he reminded Iris of a toy soldier, with two blobs of crimson-colour on his broad cheeks and a tiny black waxed moustache.
As he entered the baroness spoke to him sharply and then waved to the professor to continue.
By this time Iris’ nerve was shattered; she was so sure that the ticket-collector would prove another victim to mass-hypnotism that she was prepared when Hare made a grimace.
“He’s telling the old, old story,” he said.
“Of course he is.” Iris tried to laugh. “I expect he was one of her peasants. He looks bucolic. She seems to own the lot—including you and the professor.”
“Now, don’t get het up,” he urged. “I know just what you are feeling, because I’ve been through this myself. I’ll tell you about it, if I can dislodge this young lady.”
The little girl, who had been making precocious eyes at Hare, responded to his invitation to move with shrugs and pouts of protest. All the same she reluctantly went back to her original place while he squeezed into the corner originally occupied by the elusive spinster.
“Cheer up,” he said. “Unless your Miss Froy was invisible, other people in the train must have seen her.”
“I know,” nodded Iris. “But I can’t think. My brain’s too sticky.”
The professor, who was just leaving the compartment, caught the drift of Hare’s argument, for he turned back to speak to Iris.
“If you can produce some definite proof of this lady’s existence, I’m still open to conviction. But I sincerely hope that you will not expose us and yourself to further ridicule.”
Iris felt too limp for defiance.
“Thank you,” she said meekly. “Where shall I find you?”
“In the reserved portion.”
“We’re sharing a bunny-hutch,” supplemented Hare. “Didn’t you know we’re rich? We started a prosperity chain.”
“I hate that man,” burst out Iris when the professor had gone.”
“Oh, no,” protested Hare, “he’s not a bad old fossil. You’ve got him scared stiff because you’re young and attractive.”
Then the grin faded from his lips.
“I want to bore you with a true story,” he said. “Some years ago, I was playing in an international at Twickenham. Just before the match both teams were presented to the Prince of Wales and he shook hands with all of us. Well, after I’d scored the winning try—I had to slip that in—I got kicked on the head in a scrum and passed out. Later on, when I was fairly comfortable in a private ward at the hospital, the nurse came in, all of a flutter, and said there was a special visitor to see me.”
“The Prince?” asked Iris, trying to force an intelligent interest.
“The same Of course, he didn’t stay more than a minute. Just smiled at me and said he hoped I’d soon be all right and he was sorry about my accident. I was so steamed up I thought I wouldn’t sleep a wink, but I dropped off the instant he had gone. Next morning the nurses said, “Weren’t you pleased to see your captain?”
“Captain?”
“Yes, the captain of the team. It was definitely
not
the Prince. And yet I saw him as plainly as I see you. He shook hands with me and said something nice about my try. He was
real
. And that’s what a spot of head trouble can do to the best of us.”
Iris set her lips obstinately.
“I thought you believed in me,” she said. “But you’re like the rest. Please go away.”
“I will, because I’m sure you ought to keep quiet. Try and get some sleep.”
“No. I’ve got to think this out. If I let myself believe all of you, I should be afraid I was getting mental. And I’m not. I’m
not
.”
“Now take it easy.”
“What a soothing nurse you’d make. You only want a silly cap.
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