Having spoken it, she was ashamed, and her lip quivered a little. But the train had slackened speed; they entered a station. "Rugby!" she exclaimed, with relief. "Have you any views about treatment of the phylloxera?" "Odd that you should mention that. Why?" "Only because my father has been thinking about it: we have a friend from Avignon staying with us--all but ruined in his vineyards." Jacks had again taken out his letter-case. He selected a folded sheet of paper, and showed what looked like a dry blade of grass. The wheat, he said, on certain farms in his Company's territory had begun to suffer from a strange disease; here was an example of the parasite-eaten growth; no one yet had recognised the disease or discovered a check for it. "Let my father have it," said Irene. "He is interested in all that kind of thing." "Really? Seriously?" "Quite seriously. He would much like to see it." "Then I will either call on him, or write to him, when I get back." Miss Derwent had not yet spoken of her destination. She mentioned, now, that she was going to spend a week or two with relations at a country place in Cheshire. She must change trains at Crewe. This gave a lighter turn to the conversation. Arnold Jacks launched into frank gaiety, and Irene met him with spirit. Not a little remarkable was the absence of the note of sex from their merry gossip in the narrow seclusion of a little railway compartment. Irene was as safe with this world-conquering young man as with her own brother; would have been so, probably, on a desert island. They were not man and woman, but English gentleman and lady, and, from one point of view, very brilliant specimens of their kind. At Crewe both alighted, Arnold to stretch his legs for a moment. "By the bye," he said, as Miss Derwent, having seen to her luggage, was bidding him farewell, "I'm sorry to hear that young Otway has been very ill." "Ill?--I had no knowledge of it. In Russia?" "Yes. My father was speaking of it yesterday. He had heard it from his friend, old Mr. Otway. A fever of some kind. He's all right again, I believe." "We have heard nothing of it. There's your whistle. Good-bye!" Jacks leapt into his train, waved a hand from the window, and was whirled away. For the rest of her journey, Irene seemed occupied with an alternation of grave and amusing thoughts. At moments she looked seriously troubled. This passed, and the arrival found her bright as ever; the pink of modern maidenhood, fancy free.