The austerity of Waterloo Station was lightened on the followingmorning at ten minutes to eleven, when I arrived to catch the train toCombe Regis, by several gleams of sunshine and a great deal of bustleand activity on the various platforms. A porter took my suitcase andgolf-clubs, and arranged an assignation on Number 6 platform. I boughtmy ticket, and made my way to the bookstall, where, in the interestsof trade, I inquired in a loud and penetrating voice if they had gotJeremy Garnet's "Manoeuvres of Arthur." Being informed that they hadnot, I clicked my tongue reproachfully, advised them to order in asupply, as the demand was likely to be large, and spent a couple ofshillings on a magazine and some weekly papers. Then, with ten minutesto spare, I went off in search of Ukridge.
I found him on platform six. The eleven-twenty was already alongside,and presently I observed my porter cleaving a path towards me with thesuit-case and golf-bag.
"Here you are!" shouted Ukridge vigorously. "Good for you. Thought youwere going to miss it."I shook hands with the smiling Mrs. Ukridge.
"I've got a carriage and collared two corner seats. Millie goes downin another. She doesn't like the smell of smoke when she's travelling.
Hope we get the carriage to ourselves. Devil of a lot of people herethis morning. Still, the more people there are in the world, the moreeggs we shall sell. I can see with half an eye that all theseblighters are confirmed egg-eaters. Get in, sonnie. I'll just see themissis into her carriage, and come back to you."I entered the compartment, and stood at the door, looking out in thefaint hope of thwarting an invasion of fellow-travellers. Then Iwithdrew my head suddenly and sat down. An elderly gentleman,accompanied by a pretty girl, was coming towards me. It was not thistype of fellow traveller whom I had hoped to keep out. I had noticedthe girl at the booking office. She had waited by the side of thequeue while the elderly gentleman struggled gamely for the tickets,and I had had plenty of opportunity of observing her appearance. I haddebated with myself whether her hair should rightly be described asbrown or golden. I had finally decided on brown. Once only had I mether eyes, and then only for an instant. They might be blue. They mightbe grey. I could not be certain. Life is full of these problems.
"This seems to be tolerably empty, my dear Phyllis," said the elderlygentleman, coming to the door of the compartment and looking in.
"You're sure you don't object to a smoking-carriage?""Oh no, father. Not a bit.""Then I think . . ." said the elderly gentleman, getting in.
The inflection of his voice suggested the Irishman. It was not abrogue. There were no strange words. But the general effect was Irish.
"That's good," he said, settling himself and pulling out a cigar case.
The bustle of the platform had increased momentarily, until now, when,from the snorting of the engine, it seemed likely that the train mightstart at any minute, the crowd's excitement was extreme. Shrill criesechoed down the platform. Lost sheep, singly and in companies, rushedto and fro, peering eagerly into carriages in search of seats.
Piercing voices ordered unknown "Tommies" and "Ernies" to "keep byaunty, now." Just as Ukridge returned, that /sauve qui peut/ of therailway crowd, the dreaded "Get in anywhere," began to be heard, andthe next moment an avalanche of warm humanity poured into thecarriage.
The newcomers consisted of a middle-aged lady, addressed as Aunty,very stout and clad in a grey alpaca dress, skin-tight; a youth calledAlbert, not, it was to appear, a sunny child; a niece of some twentyyears, stolid and seemingly without interest in life, and one or twoother camp-followers and retainers.
Ukridge slipped into his corner, adroitly foiling Albert, who had madea dive in that direction. Albert regarded him fixedly andreproachfully for a space, then sank into the seat beside me and beganto chew something that smelt of aniseed.
Aunty, meanwhile, was distributing her substantial weight evenlybetween the feet of the Irish gentleman and those of his daughter, asshe leaned out of the window to converse with a lady friend in a strawhat and hair curlers, accompanied by three dirty and frivolous boys.
It was, she stated, lucky that she had caught the train. I could notagree with her. The girl with the brown hair and the eyes that wereneither blue or grey was bearing the infliction, I noticed, withangelic calm. She even smiled. This was when the train suddenly movedoff with a jerk, and Aunty, staggering back, sat down on the bag offood which Albert had placed on the seat beside him.
"Clumsy!" observed Albert tersely.
"/Albert/, you mustn't speak to Aunty so!""Wodyer want to sit on my bag for then?" said Albert disagreeably.
They argued the point. Argument in no wise interfered with Albert'spower of mastication. The odour of aniseed became more and morepainful. Ukridge had lighted a cigar, and I understood why Mrs.
Ukridge preferred to travel in another compartment, for"In his hand he bore the brandWhich none but he might smoke."I looked across the carriage stealthily to see how the girl wasenduring this combination of evils, and noticed that she had begun toread. And as she put the book down to look out of the window, I sawwith a thrill that trickled like warm water down my spine that herbook was "The Manoeuvres of Arthur." I gasped. That a girl should lookas pretty as that and at the same time have the rare intelligence toread Me . . . well, it seemed an almost superhuman combination of theexcellencies. And more devoutly than ever I cursed in my heart theseintrusive outsiders who had charged in at the last moment anddestroyed for ever my chance of making this wonderful girl'sacquaintance. But for them, we might have become intimate in the firsthalf hour. As it was, what were we? Ships that pass in the night! Shewould get out at some beastly wayside station, and vanish from my lifewithout my ever having even spoken to her.
Aunty, meanwhile, having retired badly worsted from her encounter withAlbert, who showed a skill in logomachy that marked him out as afuture labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. Theniece was demolishing sausage rolls. The atmosphere of the carriagewas charged with a blend of odours, topping all Ukridge's cigar, nowin full blast.
The train raced on towards the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpidpeace began to settle down upon the carriage. Ukridge had thrown awaythe stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth openand his eyes shut. Aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of abeef sandwich, was breathing heavily and swaying from side to side.
Albert and the niece were dozing, Albert's jaws working automatically,even in sleep.
"What's your book, my dear?" asked the Irishman.
" 'The Manoeuvres of Arthur,' father. By Jeremy Garnet."I would not have believed without the evidence of my ears that my namecould possibly have sounded so musical.
"Molly McEachern gave it to me when I left the Abbey. She keeps ashelf of books for her guests when they are going away. Books that sheconsiders rubbish, and doesn't want, you know."I hated Miss McEachern without further evidence.
"And what do you think of it?""I like it," said the girl decidedly. The carriage swam before myeyes. "I think it is very clever."What did it matter after that that the ass in charge of the Waterloobookstall had never heard of "The Manoeuvres of Arthur," and that mypublishers, whenever I slunk in to ask how it was selling, looked atme with a sort of grave, paternal pity and said that it had not really"begun to move?" Anybody can write one of those rotten popular novelswhich appeal to the unthinking public, but it takes a man of intellectand refinement and taste and all that sort of thing to turn outsomething that will be approved of by a girl like this.
"I wonder who Jeremy Garnet is," she said. "I've never heard of himbefore. I imagine him rather an old young man, probably with aneyeglass, and conceited. And I should think he didn't know many girls.
At least if he thinks Pamela an ordinary sort of girl. She's acr-r-eature," said Phyllis emphatically.
This was a blow to me. I had always looked on Pamela as a well-drawncharacter, and a very attractive, kittenish little thing at that. Thatscene between her and the curate in the conservatory . . . And whenshe talks to Arthur at the meet of the Blankshires . . . I was sorryshe did not like Pamela. Somehow it lowered Pamela in my estimation.
"But I like Arthur," said the girl.
This was better. A good chap, Arthur,--a very complete and thoughtfulstudy of myself. If she liked Arthur, why, then it followed . . . butwhat was the use? I should never get a chance of speaking to her. Wewere divided by a great gulf of Aunties and Alberts and meatsandwiches.
The train was beginning to slow down. Signs of returning animationbegan to be noticeable among the sleepers. Aunty's eyes opened, staredvacantly round, closed, and reopened. The niece woke, and startedinstantly to attack a sausage roll. Albert and Ukridge slumbered on.
A whistle from the engine, and the train drew up at a station. Lookingout, I saw that it was Yeovil. There was a general exodus. Auntybecame instantly a thing of dash and electricity, collected parcels,shook Albert, replied to his thrusts with repartee, and finallyheading a stampede out of the door.
The Irishman and his daughter also rose, and got out. I watched themleave stoically. It would have been too much to expect that theyshould be going any further.
"Where are we?" said Ukridge sleepily. "Yeovil? Not far now. I tellyou what it is, old horse, I could do with a drink."With that remark he closed his eyes again, and returned to hisslumbers. And, as he did so, my eye, roving discontentedly over thecarriage, was caught by something lying in the far corner. It was "TheManoeuvres of Arthur." The girl had left it behind.
I suppose what follows shows the vanity that obsesses young authors.
It did not even present itself to me as a tenable theory that the bookmight have been left behind on purpose, as being of no further use tothe owner. It only occurred to me that, if I did not act swiftly, thepoor girl would suffer a loss beside which the loss of a purse orvanity-case were trivial.
Five seconds later I was on the platform.
"Excuse me," I said, "I think . . . ?""Oh, thank you so much," said the girl.
I made my way back to the carriage, and lit my pipe in a glow ofemotion.
"They are blue," I said to my immortal soul. "A wonderful, deep, soft,heavenly blue, like the sea at noonday."
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