A silence fell between them. On reaching the station Paul secured a compartment for Hazel’s exclusive use. This was easily done, as the early morning city train, with its many passengers, was gone some time since, and there were few to go by this. A handsome tip to the guard settled the matter: Hazel was to be locked in. Having seen her seated, he proceeded to furnish her with all sorts of illustrated papers and a dainty basket of grapes from a fruit-shop outside the station. Then, everything completed to his satisfaction, he leaned upon the door of the carriage as she sat within, amidst a very sea of papers.
"Don’t look at that yet," he pleaded, in remonstrance, as she took up a magazine. "It is only two minutes till time is up."
Hazel obediently laid down the journal. It would be unkind to go on puzzling him, now that she knew he had noticed her avoidance of him, and was aware that something had troubled her. It would be particularly ungracious too, after all this recent kindness. Besides, it was easier here: he was farther away, and she breathed more freely. Surely she could look at him once or twice, and talk in a natural manner? She did look at him. He was regarding herself earnestly.
"Hazel," he said humbly, "am I forgiven for not asking your permission, direct, for driving you?"
"Yes," Hazel said with dignity, rearranging the fruit in the basket.
"Thank you," he answered, with courtly gravity, "and—and you did not mind _me_ driving you?"
"No," she admitted graciously. The train beginning to move, she handed him, through the window, half her bunch of purple grapes, as an earnest of her favour; and Paul, reading in the resolute little face, that protest was useless, accepted the gift in meek gratitude.
The short railroad journey was uneventful enough. The girl sat comfortably, immersed in papers. It is true, her mind was slightly distracted by their number; but when it had occurred to her to take them all with her to her uncle’s house, it mattered less what she read first, the distressful doubt, that she might be missing the best things, being thus overcome. The grapes she left untouched. Grapes, she argued, were not a fruit for persons in rude health like herself; they were essentially a delicacy for invalids. She would try to take them home for her mother; but if her uncle should chance to be specially fond of them, and she caught him eyeing them in wistful greed—why, then he should have them. Was not the poor man more than half an invalid?