The offer caused the young lady to look at him more intently. “Why, it’s Mr. Darrow!” she exclaimed; and then, all radiant recognition: “Oh, thank you! We’ll share it, if you will.” She knew him, then; and he knew her; but how and where had they met? He put aside the problem for subsequent solution, and drawing her into a more sheltered corner, bade her wait till he could find his porter. When, a few minutes later, he came back with his recovered property, and the news that the boat would not leave till the tide had turned, she showed no concern. “Not for two hours? How lucky--then I can find my trunk!” Ordinarily Darrow would have felt little disposed to involve himself in the adventure of a young female who had lost her trunk; but at the moment he was glad of any pretext for activity. Even should he decide to take the next up train from Dover he still had a yawning hour to fill; and the obvious remedy was to devote it to the loveliness in distress under his umbrella. “You’ve lost a trunk? Let me see if I can find it.” It pleased him that she did not return the conventional “Oh, WOULD you?” Instead, she corrected him with a laugh--“Not a trunk, but my trunk; I’ve no other--” and then added briskly: “You’d better first see to getting your own things on the boat.” This made him answer, as if to give substance to his plans by discussing them: “I don’t actually know that I’m going over.” “Not going over?” “Well ... perhaps not by this boat.” Again he felt a stealing indecision. “I may probably have to go back to London. I’m--I’m waiting ... expecting a letter...(She’ll think me a defaulter,” he reflected.) “But meanwhile there’s plenty of time to find your trunk.” He picked up his companion’s bundles, and offered her an arm which enabled her to press her slight person more closely under his umbrella; and as, thus linked, they beat their way back to the platform, pulled together and apart like marionettes on the wires of the wind, he continued to wonder where he could have seen her. He had immediately classed her as a compatriot; her small nose, her clear tints, a kind of sketchy delicacy in her face, as though she had been brightly but lightly washed in with water-colour, all confirmed the evidence of her high sweet voice and of her quick incessant gestures. She was clearly an American, but with the loose native quality strained through a closer woof of manners: the composite product of an enquiring and adaptable race. All this, however, did not help him to fit a name to her, for just such instances were perpetually pouring through the London Embassy, and the etched and angular American was becoming rarer than the fluid type.