The train stopped; two passengers got out, and one got in.
'I shall die,' thought Jon, 'if we're not alone at all.'
The train went on; and again Fleur leaned forward.
"I never let go," she said; "do you?"
Jon shook his head vehemently.
"Never!" he said. "Will you write to me?"
"No; but you can--to my Club."
She had a Club; she was wonderful!
"Did you pump Holly?" he muttered.
"Yes, but I got nothing. I didn't dare pump hard."
"What can it be?" cried Jon.
"I shall find out all right."
A long silence followed till Fleur said: "This is Maidenhead; stand by,
Jon!"
The train stopped. The remaining passenger got out. Fleur drew down her
blind.
"Quick!" she cried. "Hang out! Look as much of a beast as you can."
Jon blew his nose, and scowled; never in all his life had he scowled
like that! An old lady recoiled, a young one tried the handle. It
turned, but the door would not open. The train moved, the young lady
darted to another carriage.
"What luck!" cried Jon. "It Jammed."
"Yes," said Fleur; "I was holding it."
The train moved out, and Jon fell on his knees.
"Look out for the corridor," she whispered; "and--quick!"
Her lips met his. And though their kiss only lasted perhaps ten seconds,
Jon's soul left his body and went so far beyond, that, when he was again
sitting opposite that demure figure, he was pale as death. He heard
her sigh, and the sound seemed to him the most precious he had ever
heard--an exquisite declaration that he meant something to her.
"Six weeks isn't really long," she said; "and you can easily make it six
if you keep your head out there, and never seem to think of me."
Jon gasped.
"This is just what's really wanted, Jon, to convince them, don't
you see? If we're just as bad when you come back they'll stop being
ridiculous about it. Only, I'm sorry it's not Spain; there's a girl in a
Goya picture at Madrid who's like me, Father says. Only she isn't--we've
got a copy of her."
It was to Jon like a ray of sunshine piercing through a fog. "I'll make
it Spain," he said, "Mother won't mind; she's never been there. And my
Father thinks a lot of Goya."
"Oh! yes, he's a painter--isn't he?"
"Only water-colour," said Jon, with honesty.
"When we come to Reading, Jon, get out first and go down to Caversham
lock and wait for me. I'll send the car home and we'll walk by the
towing-path."
Jon seized her hand in gratitude, and they sat silent, with the world
well lost, and one eye on the corridor. But the train seemed to run
twice as fast now, and its sound was almost lost in that of Jon's
sighing.