Stuart Lynde had arrived at some conclusions also. Under half-closed eyelids, he had critically looked his fair neighbor over again by the morning light, after she had made her toilet, by shaking out her wrinkles, twisting her long hair into the smooth coil, running her fingers through the short curls on her temples and setting her little hat in its place. After that she looked fresh, and in order, with none of that forlorn and dishevelled appearance some women take on after having sat up all night in the cars. But the conclusions: It must be confessed that this face from the first fascinated and attracted him. It was of as fine a type as he had ever seen, but her dress and air stamped her as belonging to the fashionable world; and had he not long ago decided that nothing good could come out of fashionable society, such a hollow, decayed, deceitful mass as it was? How many girls he daily met who had fair faces and innocent eyes, but when they spoke—their lips rarely dropped pearls, oftener slang; they were loud, actually coarse, some of them, or they were inane and silly. Most of them cared for no book except a novel, and even that they knew nothing of when once it was devoured. To give an analysis of a single character would be as impossible as to speak in Chinese. They had no thoughts—not more than humming-birds; they had never been taught to think; the few exceptions—in his experience—were those who possessed no personal attractions. A pretty head was sure to be an empty one; and this girl with a head like Diana, was probably a "society girl," with not an idea above dressing, dancing and flirting. It would be but courteous to address a sympathizing word to her, under these extraordinary circumstances, with this long, tedious day before them, and no companionship of any sort. But then, what good? She would probably reply in a few parroty phrases, and that would be the end, or she would resent his remark as an impertinence from a mere fellow passenger, an utter stranger, or she would imagine him desperately smitten, and would place him on one of her pretty fingers as the tenth one ensnared by her within a fortnight. No, indeed, he should make no advance toward acquaintance whatever. Upon which heroic resolution, he dived into his satchel and brought out piles of depositions, knit his brows over them, and tried to forget that he was hungry and growing more so. An hour or two of hard work on these, then he produced a volume of essays to see what consolation there might be in that for a hungry man. This reminded Marian for the first time that she had two little books herself that she had entirely forgotten. She took out the small package wrapped in brown paper, and another inner wrapping of soft white paper as if it held something precious. There was a little volume of "Daily Food" Scripture texts, arranged for each day in the year, and a copy of Thomas à Kempis' "Imitation of Christ," daintily bound in morocco and gilt.