Michael studied his Baedeker in a steady business-like way. He had made up his mind that to brood over an irreparable misfortune was unworthy of any man who acknowledged himself a Christian--that any such indulgence would weaken his moral character and make him unfit for his duties in life. The sorrow was there, but there was no need to be ever staring it in the face; as far as was possible, he would put it from him, and do the best for himself and others. Michael's stubborn tenacity of purpose brought its own reward, for he was soon so absorbed in mapping out his route that he was quite startled at hearing the porters shouting 'Warnborough!' and the next moment the door was flung open, and a shabbily-dressed man, with the gait and bearing of a soldier, entered the compartment, and, taking the opposite corner to Michael, unfolded his paper and began to read. Michael glanced at him carelessly. He was rather a good-looking man, he thought, with his closely-cropped gray hair and black moustache; but his scrutiny proceeded no further, for just then he caught sight of a familiar face and figure on the platform that made him shrink back into his corner, and wish that he, too, had a newspaper, behind which he could hide himself. There was no mistaking that slim, graceful figure and the little, close black bonnet. There was something about Mrs. Blake which he would have recognised a quarter of a mile off. By Jove! she was coming towards his compartment. Her hands were full of parcels, and she was asking a gray-headed old gentleman to open the door for her--how handsome and bright and alert she looked, as she smiled her acknowledgment! The old gentleman looked back once or twice--even old fogeys have eyes for a pretty woman--but Mrs. Blake was too busy arranging her parcels in the rack to notice the impression she had made. If only he had had that newspaper he might have pretended that he was asleep; but when the parcels were in their place she would see him. There was nothing for him but to take the initiative. 'Let me put that up for you, Mrs. Blake;' and at the sound of his voice she turned round. In a moment he knew that she was not pleased to see him--that if she had discovered that he was there, nothing would have induced her to enter the compartment. It was his extraordinary quickness of intuition that made him know this, and the sudden shade that crossed her face when he addressed her. Underneath Mrs. Blake's smooth speeches and charm of manner he had always been conscious of some indefinable antagonism to himself; as he had once told Geraldine, there was no love lost between them. 'In a ladylike way, she certainly hates me,' he had said.