Joanna sat on that side of the train next to the corridor, and every now and then, passing between her and the Lothians, some passenger would blot out a whole brown woodland or amber-coloured field or bare hill of palest amethyst. To her at the moment one broad, obscuring back was like another. She hardly realized, therefore, that a particular pair of tweed shoulders returned again and again until they came at length to a hesitating stand-still opposite the door of her compartment. Even when the door opened, and a man’s brown face looked in with inquiring friendliness, and a lean hand was stretched out, and her name warmly uttered – even then it was several moments before she realized that the stranger was her old playmate, Bob Ranken.

“Joanna! It is you!”

“Why … Bob!”

He wrung her hand and sat down opposite, smiling – taking off his hat, looking at her with evident pleasure.

Joanna too looked at him. He was the same old Bob! After the first shock of shyness and strangeness she saw that he had not really changed. He was bigger, older, and certain marks of worldly assurance were as clear as the deep sun-wrinkles that surrounded his eyes. But the African sun had not burned away the spiritual indecision lurking about his attractive lips, nor informed the almost callow innocence of his gaze.

“Do come into our carriage,” he begged her school-boyishly. “My father is there with me. I thought and thought it must be you. But your hat hid your eyes and I wasn’t positive.”

“I wonder you knew me at all,” said Joanna. “I am changed more than you, I think. Am I not changed?”

“Yes and no,” he replied. “I felt a bit afraid of the dashing-looking female I first caught sight of. But now that I have a good look at you I can see the old Joanna. I wish you would take your hat off. Would you have known me?”

“Anywhere!”

“Yet you didn’t when I first came in and stuck out my paw at you.”

“No. I was half asleep.”

“Asleep? You didn’t look it!”

“Thinking, then.”

“Ah!”