By Charles Reade
The 10：15 train glided from Paddington May 7， 1847. Inthe left compartment of a certain first-class carriage were fourpassengers； of these two were worth deion. The lady hada smooth， white， delicate brow， strongly marked eyebrows，long lashes， eyes that seemed to change colour， and a goodsized，delicious mouth， with teeth as white as milk. A mancould not see her nose for her eyes and mouth； her own sexcould， and would have told us some nonsense about it. Shewore an unpretending grayish dress， buttoned to the throat withlozenge-shaped buttons， and a Scottish shawl that agreeablyevaded colour. She was like a duck， so tight her plain feathersfitted her， and there she sat， smooth， snug， and delicious， witha book in her hand and a soupcon of her wrist just visible asshe held it. Her opposite neighbour was what I call a goodstyle of man， the more to his credit since he belonged to acorporation that frequently turns out the worst imaginablestyle of young men. He was a cavalry officer， aged twentyfive.
He had a moustache， but not a very repulsive one—notone of those subnasal pigtails on which soup is suspended likedew on a shrub； it was short， thick， and black as a coal. Histeeth had not yet been turned by tobacco smoke to the colourof juice； his clothes did not stick to nor hang to him； he hadan engaging smile， and， what I liked the dog for， his vanity，which was inordinate， was in its proper place， his heart， not inhis face， jostling mine and other people’s who have none； in aword， he was what one oftener hears of than meets—a younggentleman. He was conversing in an animated whisper with acompanion， a fellow-officer； they were talking about what itis far better not to—women. Our friend clearly did not wish tobe overheard； for he cast ever and anon a furtive glance at hisfair vis-a-vis and lowered his voice. She seemed completelyabsorbed in her book， and that reassured him. At last the twosoldiers came down to a whisper （the truth must be told）； theone who got down at Slough， and was lost to posterity， bet tenpounds to three that he who was going down with us to Bathand immortality would not kiss either of the ladies oppositeupon the road. “Done， done！” Now I am sorry a man I havehitherto praised should have lent himself， even in a whisper，to such a speculation； “but nobody is wise at all hours，” noteven when the clock is striking five and twenty， and you are toconsider his profession， his good looks， and the temptation—ten to three.
After Slough the party was reduced to three. At Twylford onelady dropped her handkerchief； Captain Dolignan fell on it likea lamb； two or three words were interchanged on this occasion.
At Reading the Marlborough of our tale made one of the safeinvestments of that day； he bought a “Times” and “Punch”—thelatter full of steel-pen thrusts and woodcuts. Valour and beautydeigned to laugh at some inflamed humbug or other puncturedby “Punch.” Now laughing together thaws our human ice；long before Swindon it was a talking-match； at Swindonwho so devoted as Captain Dolignan？ He handed them out，he souped them， he tough-chickened them， he brandied andcochinealed one， and he brandied and burnt-sugared the other；on their return to the carriage one lady passed into the innercompartment to inspect a certain gentleman’s seat on that sideof the line.
Reader， had it been you or I， the beauty would have beenthe deserter， the average one would have stayed with us till allwas blue， ourselves included； not more surely does our sliceof bread and butter， when it escapes from our hand， revolve itever so often， alight face downward on the carpet. But this wasa bit of a fop， Adonis， dragoon， —so Venus remained in tetea-tete with him. You have seen a dog meet an unknown femaleof his species； how handsome， how empresse， how expressivehe becomes： such was Dolignan after Swindon， and， to do thedog justice， he got handsome and handsomer. And you haveseen a cat conscious of approaching cream： such was MissHaythorn； she became demurer and demurer. Presently ourcaptain looked out of the window and laughed； this elicited aninquiring look from Miss Haythorn.
“We are only a mile from the Box Tunnel.”
“Do you always laugh a mile from the Box Tunnel？” saidthe lady.
“Invariably.”
“What for？”
“Why， hem！ it is a gentleman’s joke.”
Captain Dolignan then recounted to Miss Haythorn thefollowing：
“A lady and her husband sat together going through the BoxTunnel； there was one gentleman opposite； it was pitch-dark.
After the tunnel the lady said， ‘George， how absurd of you tosalute me going through the tunnel！’ ‘I did no such thing.’ ‘Youdidn’t？’ ‘No； why？’ ‘Because somehow I thought you did！’”
Here Captain Dolignan laughed and endeavoured to leadhis companion to laugh， but it was not to be done. The trainentered the tunnel.
Miss Haythorn. Ah！
Dolignan. What is the matter？
Miss Haythorn. I am frightened.
Dolignan （moving to her side）. Pray do not be alarmed； I amnear you.
Miss Haythorn. You are near me—very near me indeed，Captain Dolignan.
Dolignan. You know my name？
Miss Haythorn. I heard you mention it. I wish we were outof this dark place.
Dolignan. I could be content to spend hours here reassuringyou， my dear lady.
Miss Haythorn. Nonsense！
Dolignan. Pweep！ （Grave reader， do not put our lips to thenext pretty creature you meet， or will understand what thismeans.）
Miss Haythorn. Ee！ Ee！
Friend. What is the matter？
Miss Haythorn. Open the door！ Open the door！
There was a sound of hurried whispers； the door was shutand the blind pulled down with hostile sharpness.
If any critic falls on me for putting inarticulate sounds ina dialogue as above， I answer， with all the insolence I cancommand at present， “Hit boys as big as yourself”—bigger，perhaps， such as Sophocles， Euripides， and Aristophanes； theybegan it， and I learned it of them sore against my will.