Fortune's Lead Read Free

reverie, with nothing to distract me from it—I hadn’t even remembered to buy anything to read. Looking out of the window, everything seemed autumnally grey—and even when it finally occurred to me to take my dark glasses off, the passing landscape wasn’t much more cheerful. We drove into a belt of rain, misting against the windows, and the train-wheels started echoing the end-of-summer view by saying, September-September-September. The monotony of the sound made me feel as autumnal as the view.
    A steward came by calling the first sitting for lunch. When he came by again calling the second, I roused myself. Eating would be something to do. Uninspiring, but something. Or perhaps I wasn’t hungry enough to bother. Finally I did decide to bother, and wandered along the train, getting to the dining car in time to be dodged round by a steward carrying plates of soup.
    Late again—too late for everything, my mind echoed, and that thought fitted in so well with my state of mind that I sat down abruptly in the nearest seat without bothering to ask the woman opposite if she minded. She looked across the small table for two and gave a fiercely disapproving sniff, as if I was the last person she would have chosen to share a table with, and then returned to her soup leaving me feeling somehow lower than ever.
    Lunch passed in silence: I kept my eyes on my plate, or looked out of the window, and ate whatever I was given without noticing what it was. By the time I accepted coffee, I had the table to myself, so I propped my elbows on it and began absently shaking sugar into my coffee-cup, thinking about the future and not getting anywhere. When someone spoke beside me I looked up cloudily, and suddenly realized I was being addressed by name.
    ‘It won’t taste very nice like that, Miss Armitage.’
    ‘What? I’m sorry—I didn’t...’
    ‘Or do you always drink coffee with salt in it?’ He was twinkling at me, and I suddenly realized who was standing beside my table. It was the tweedy man whose luggage I’d fallen over—the polite one. I stiffened, but he was smiling at me, his hand on the seat opposite, and before I could say anything he asked, ‘May I?’ and sat down facing me.
    ‘I’ve been sitting over there, but you didn’t notice me.’ He was still smiling at me, with a kind of mischievous reproach, and his curly grey hair made him look more like a leprechaun than ever. ‘May I introduce myself? Henry Thurlanger.’ He held out his hand across the table, adding confidentially, ‘You don’t take salt in coffee, do you?’
    ‘Oh—no.’ I put the salt pot down, feeling foolish, and put my hand into his outstretched one. ‘How—how stupid you must think me!’
    ‘Not at all. I wouldn’t dream of being so impertinent.’ He twinkled at me again. ‘You must have some more coffee. I meant to offer you lunch, but you ran away so quickly. What a pity we didn’t meet up sooner.
    ‘Steward!’ He snapped his fingers, and gave an order to the rapidly appearing steward, adding, ‘You don’t want us to move, do you? Good,’ and turning back to me,
    ‘How wise of you to come to the last lunch. I always do. The food isn’t very much worse that when it started, and you’re not hustled.’
    I was feeling rather dazed, and a quick glance round the dining car showed me that it was almost empty: I must have, sat on for longer than I thought. Looking helplessly back at the man opposite me, I saw that he was watching me and smiling, so I smiled back. He said, ‘I disturbed your thoughts. I’m sorry. But you didn’t mind my joining you, did you?’
    ‘No, not at all—Mr. Thurlanger.’ I could only be as polite as he was: besides, he was rather nice. There was something very warming about being twinkled at. He said quickly, talking through the arrival of more coffee for both of us,
    ‘Call me Henry. Everyone does—even that odious nephew of mine. He only calls me Uncle when he’s angry with me—which is most