He rose with a start, his ingenuous face looking as though it had been dipped in crimson: even the reddish tint in his beard seemed to deepen.

The train swayed again, almost flinging Miss Bart into his arms.
She steadied herself with a laugh and drew back; but he was enveloped in the scent of her dress, and his shoulder had felt her fugitive touch.
"Oh, Mr.Gryce, is it you?
I'm so sorry--I was trying to find the porter and get some tea." She held out her hand as the train resumed its level rush, and they stood exchanging a few words in the aisle.

Yes--he was going to Bellomont.

He had heard she was to be of the party--he blushed again as he admitted it.
And was he to be there for a whole week?
How delightful! But at this point one or two belated passengers from the last station forced their way into the carriage, and Lily had to retreat to her seat.
"The chair next to mine is empty--do take it," she said over her shoulder; and Mr.Gryce, with considerable embarrassment, succeeded in effecting an exchange which enabled him to transport himself and his bags to her side.
"Ah--and here is the porter, and perhaps we can have some tea." She signalled to that official, and in a moment, with the ease that seemed to attend the fulfilment of all her wishes, a little table had been set up between the seats, and she had helped Mr.Gryce to bestow his encumbering properties beneath it.
When the tea came he watched her in silent fascination while her hands flitted above the tray, looking miraculously fine and slender in contrast to the coarse china and lumpy bread.

It seemed wonderful to him that any one should perform with such careless ease the difficult task of making tea in public in a lurching train.