“On the contrary! Most of my friends are men. Here comes the tea; now we’ll be happy!” The attendant placed the tray on the seat, beamed on Miss Risk and withdrew. Kitty looked like crying again. “I believe you’re hungry,” said Hilda. “Fall to on the bread and butter, and I’ll pour out. It requires a little practice, you know.” She proceeded to talk about herself, explaining, much to Kitty’s interest, that she was a journalist. “Most of my work consists of ‘specials’ for _The Lady’s Mirror_, rather a swagger weekly, though quite young. I ‘do’ all sorts of big functions, swell weddings, and so forth. I’ve a knack for making dreary things look bright in print, also a knack for making the dull remarks of prominent persons seem brilliant. These are the chief reasons, I fancy, why the Editor sends me all the way from London instead of employing some one on the spot. I have just come from Aberdeen, and if you read my article in the next week’s _Mirror_, you will imagine that I was in fairyland instead of in the worst of weather, at a damaged garden party, among a few hundred ordinary humans who wished themselves at home! But I enjoyed myself—I generally do.” She looked as if she did, thought Kitty, venturing for the first time to take note of her new friend’s appearance. Hilda inclined to fairness. Her hair was a pale brown without tinge of red, and her fine skin was almost pale, though the lips were warmly coloured. Her nose was short and straight, her chin, while nicely rounded, hinted at a certain boldness—not aggressiveness—of character. Her dark, bluish-grey eyes were unusually wide-set, and this peculiarity—for it was such—affected you first as merely piquant, but ere long as very charming with its suggestion of sincerity and honesty. She was probably six or seven years older than Kitty. She chatted on about herself and her work till she saw that Kitty had made a fair meal. “Feeling pretty fit now, aren’t you?” she said encouragingly, and rang the bell. “Oh, quite different; I don’t know what to say to you, Miss Risk,” Kitty said gratefully. “You’ve been so good to me—and you don’t know a thing about me.” “May I ask two questions?” “Ask anything—please.” “Just two for the present. Have you friends meeting you at Euston?” “No.” “And where do you want to go on your arrival in London?” “I—don’t know.” Hilda nodded gravely. “I see you have a story,” she said, “but even if you wish to tell it, I want you to keep it back—for the present, at any rate. You and I must have a nap, or we shall be mere wrecks at the end of the journey—and I’ve pages to cover before lunch-time. Ah, here he comes!” The attendant appeared carrying pillows and rugs. “I don’t think you’ll be disturbed, Miss,” he said, ere he retired with the tray and the silver Hilda had laid on it. Two minutes later she had Kitty tucked up on one of the seats.