so powerful a turn of the brake that the stranger was flung sideways against Nina, and his elbow nearly knocked her hat off.
He raised his own apologetically—but he did not speak even then.
“The wretch!” said Nina hotly; “he might at least have begged my pardon.”
The stranger sat down again, and began to read the Spectator. Nina had no papers. The train moved on an inch or two, and the reddening yellow of the fog seemed like a Charity blanket pressed against each window. Three of the bunches of violets shook and vibrated and slipped, the train moved again and they fell on the floor of the carriage. Nina watched their trembling in an agony of irritation induced by the fog, the delay, and the persistent silence of her companion. When the flowers fell, she spoke.
“You’ve dropped your flowers,” she said. Again a bow, a silent bow, and the flowers were picked up.
“Oh, I’m desperate!” Nina said inwardly. “He must be mad—or dumb—or have a vow of silence—I wonder which?”
The train had not yet reached the next station, though it had left the last nearly an hour before.
