But she was mistaken. As the porter had bundled her into the carriage,
the man in the corner had raised a pair of deep-set blue eyes, looked at
her for a moment with a half-startled glance, and then, with the barest
flicker of a smile, had let his eyes drop once more upon his writing-pad.
Then he crossed out the word "Kismet," which he had inadvertently written.
Diana regarded him with interest. He was probably an author, she
decided, and since a year's training as a professional singer had brought
her into contact with all kinds of people who earned their livings by
their brains, as she herself hoped to do some day, she instantly felt a
friendly interest in him. She liked, too, the shape of the hand that
held the fountain-pen; it was a slender, sensitive-looking member with
well-kept nails, and Diana always appreciated nice hands. The man's head
was bent over his work, so that she could only obtain a foreshortened
glimpse of his face, but he possessed a supple length of limb that even
the heavy travelling-rug tucked around his knees failed to disguise, and
there was a certain _soigne_ air of rightness about the way he wore his
clothes which pleased her.
Suddenly becoming conscious that she was staring rather openly, she
turned her eyes away and looked out of the window, and immediately
encountered a big broad label, pasted on to the glass, with the word
"_Reserved_" printed on it in capital letters.
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