'The Lavender Lady,' I always call her, because she's one of those delightful old-fashioned people who remind one of dimity curtains, and pot-pourri, and little muslin bags of lavender.

Miles is a perfect pet, but he's lame, poor dear." Sara waited with a curious eagerness for any description which might seem to fit her recent fellow-traveller, but none came, and at last she threw out a question in the hope of eliciting his name.
"He was horribly ungracious and rude," she added, "and yet he didn't look in the least the sort of man who would be like that.

There was no lack of breeding about him.

He was just deliberately snubby--as though I had no right to exist on the same planet with him--anyway"-- laughing--"not in the same railway compartment." Molly nodded sagely.
"I believe I know whom you mean.

Was he a lean, brown, grim-looking individual, with the kind of eyes that almost make you jump when they look at you suddenly ?" "That certainly describes them," admitted Sara, smiling faintly.
"Then it was the Hermit of Far End," announced Molly.
"The Hermit of Far End ?" "Yes.