It seemed no time before Dover was reached. Ruth was a good sailor. She disliked the cold, and was glad to reach the shelter of the private cabin she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her vis-à-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.
“This is quite a coincidence,” said Mrs. Kettering.
“I know,” said Katherine; “it is odd the way things happen.”
A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits and deposited two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they were chatting together in friendly fashion.
“It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,” sighed Ruth.
“I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling.”
“You know the Riviera well?”
“No; this is my first visit.”
“Fancy that.”
“You go every year, I expect?”
“Practically. January and February in London are horrible.”
“I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months there either. Mostly mud.”
“What made you suddenly decide to travel?”
“Money,” said Katherine. “For ten years I have been a paid companion with just enough money of my own to buy myself strong country shoes; now I have been left what seems to me a fortune, though I dare say it would not seem so much to you.”
“Now I wonder why you said that—that it would not seem so to me.”
Katherine laughed. “I don’t really know. I suppose one forms impressions without thinking of it. I put you down in my own mind as one of the very rich of the earth. It was just an impression. I dare say I am wrong.”
“No,” said Ruth, “you are not wrong.” She had suddenly become very grave. “I wish you would tell me what other impressions you formed about me?”
“I—”
Ruth swept on disregarding the other’s embarrassment. “Oh, please, don’t be conventional. I want to know. As we left Victoria I looked across at you, and I had the sort of feeling that you—well, understood what was going on in my mind.”
“I can assure you I am not a mind reader,” said Katherine smiling.
“No; but will you tell me, please, just what you thought.” Ruth’s eagerness was so intense and so sincere that she carried her point.
“I will tell you if you like, but you must not think me impertinent. I thought that for some reason you were in great distress of mind, and I was sorry for you.”
“You are right. You are quite right. I am in terrible trouble. I—I should like to tell you something about it, if I may.”
“Oh, dear,” Katherine thought to herself, “how extraordinarily alike the world seems to be everywhere! People were always telling me things in St. Mary Mead, and it is just the same thing here, and I don’t really want to hear anybody’s troubles!”
She replied politely:
“Do tell me.”
They were just finishing their lunch. Ruth gulped down her coffee, rose from her seat, and quite oblivious of the fact that Katherine had not begun to sip her coffee, said: “Come to my compartment with me.”
They were two single compartments with a communicating door between them. In the second of them a thin maid, whom Katherine had noticed at Victoria, was sitting very upright on the seat, clutching a big scarlet morocco case with the initials R. V. K. on it. Mrs. Kettering pulled the communicating door to and sank down on the seat. Katherine sat down beside her.
“I am in trouble and I don’t know what to do. There is a man whom I am fond of—very fond of indeed. We cared for each other when we were young, and we were thrust apart most brutally and unjustly. Now we have come together again.”
“Yes?”
“I—I am going to meet him now. Oh! I dare say you think it is all wrong, but you don’t know the circumstances. My husband is impossible. He has treated me disgracefully.”
“Yes,” said Katherine again.
“What I feel so badly about is this. I have deceived my father—it was he who came to see me off at Victoria today. He wishes me to divorce my husband, and, of course, he has no idea—that I am going to meet this other man. He would think it extraordinarily foolish.”
“Well, don’t you think it is?”
“I—I suppose it is.”
Ruth Kettering looked down at her hands; they were shaking violently.
“But I can’t draw back now.”
“Why not?”
“I—it is all arranged, and it would break his heart.”
“Don’t you believe it,” said Katherine robustly; “hearts are pretty tough.”
“He will think I have no courage, no strength of purpose.”
“It seems to me an awfully silly thing that you are going to do,” said Katherine. “I think you realise that yourself.”
Ruth Kettering buried her face in her hands. “I don’t know—I don’t know. Ever since I left Victoria I have had a horrible feeling of something—something that is coming to me very soon—that I can’t escape.”
She clutched convulsively at Katherine’s hand.
“You must think I am mad talking to you like this, but I tell you I know something horrible is going to happen.”
“Don’t think it,” said Katherine; “try to pull yourself together. You could send your father a wire from Paris, if you like, and he would come to you at once.”
The other brightened.
“Yes, I could do that. Dear old Dad. It is queer—but I never knew until today how terribly fond of him I am.” She sat up and dried her eyes with a handkerchief. “I have been very foolish. Thank
