Outside, on the railway bridge, the red and green lamps glowed dully through deep floods of yellow fog. The platform was crowded, the train late. When at last it steamed slowly in, the crowd surged towards it. The third-class carriages were filled in the moment. Nina hurried along the platform peering into the second-class carriages. Full also. Then the guard opened the way for her into the blue-cloth Paradise of a first-class carriage; and, just as the train gave the shudder of disgust which heralds its shame-faced reluctant departure, the door opened again, and the guard pushed in another traveller--the "stranger who might----" of course. The door banged, the train moved off with an air of brisk determination. A hundred yards from the platform it stopped dead. There were no other travellers in that carriage. When the train had stood still for ten minutes or so, the stranger got up and put his head out of the window. At that instant the train decided to move again. It did it suddenly, and, exhausted by the effort, stopped after half a dozen yards' progress with so powerful a turn of the brake that the stranger was flung sideways against Nina, and his elbow nearly knocked her hat off. He raised his own apologetically--but he did not speak even then. "The wretch!" said Nina hotly; "he might at least have begged my pardon." The stranger sat down again, and began to read the _Spectator_. Nina had no papers. The train moved on an inch or two, and the reddening yellow of the fog seemed like a Charity blanket pressed against each window. Three of the bunches of violets shook and vibrated and slipped, the train moved again and they fell on the floor of the carriage. Nina watched their trembling in an agony of irritation induced by the fog, the delay, and the persistent silence of her companion. When the flowers fell, she spoke. "You've dropped your flowers," she said. Again a bow, a silent bow, and the flowers were picked up. "Oh, I'm desperate!" Nina said inwardly. "He must be mad--or dumb--or have a vow of silence--I wonder which?" The train had not yet reached the next station, though it had left the last nearly an hour before. "Which is it? Mad, dumb, or a monk? I _will_ find out. Well, it's his own fault; he shouldn't be so aggravating. I'm going to speak to him. I've made up my mind." In the interval between decision and action the train in a sudden brief access of nervous energy got itself through a station, and paused a furlong down the line exhausted by the effort. The stranger had put down his _Spectator_ and was gazing gloomily out at the fog. Nina drew a deep breath, and said--at least she nearly said: "What a dreadful fog!"