By some extraordinary apotheosis of Bank Holiday mismanagement, there was only one person in the carriage--the owner of the trap-umbrella. A girl, of course. That was inevitable in this magic weather. He had knocked her basket off the seat, and had only just saved himself from buffeting her with his uncontrolled shoulder before he saw that she was a girl. He took off his hat and apologised. She smiled, murmured, and blushed. He settled himself in his corner, and unfolded the evening paper of yesterday which, by the most fortunate chance, happened to be in his pocket. Over it he glanced at her. She was pretty--with a vague unawakened prettiness. Her eyes and hair were dark. Her hat seemed dowdy, yet becoming. Her gloves were rubbed at the fingers. Her blouse was light and bright. Her skirt obscure and severe. He decided that she was not well off. His eyes followed a dull leader on the question of the government of India. But he did not want to read. He wanted to talk. On this June day, when the life of full-grown spring thrilled one to the finger tips, how could one feed one's vitality, one's over-mastering joy of life, with printer's ink and the greyest paper in London? He glanced at her again. She was looking out of the window at the sordid little Bermondsey houses, where the red buds of the Virginia creeper were already waking to their green summer life-work. He spoke. And no one would have guessed from his speech that he was a poet. "What a beautiful day!" he said. "Yes, very," said she, and her tone gave no indication of any exuberant spring expansiveness to match his own. He looked at her again. No. Yes. Yes, he would try the experiment he had long wanted to try--had often in long, silent, tete-a-tete journeys dreamed of trying. He would skip all the pitiful formalities of chance acquaintanceship. He would speak as one human being to another--would assume the sure bond of a common kinship. He said-- "It is such a beautiful day that I want to talk about it! Mayn't I talk to you? Don't you feel that you want to say how beautiful it is--just as much as I do?" The girl looked at him. A scared fold in her brow warned him of the idea that had seized her. "I'm really not mad," he said; "but it does seem so frightfully silly that we should travel all the way to--to wherever you are going, and not tell each other how good June weather is." "Well--it is!" she owned. He eagerly spoke: he wanted to entangle her in talk before her conventional shrinking from chance acquaintanceship should shrivel her interest past hope.