There were two fat women, tearing about after their luggage, both habited in men's drab greatcoats, or what looked like them; and there was one very young lady, who stood back in apparent perplexity, gazing at the scene of confusion around her.
"_She_ cannot be Miss Tempest," deliberated Lionel.

"If she is, my mother must have mistaken her age; she looks but a child.

No harm in asking her, at any rate." He went up to the young lady.

A very pleasant-looking girl, fair, with a peach bloom upon her cheeks, dark brown hair and eyes, soft and brown and luminous.

Those eyes were wandering to all parts of the platform, some anxiety in their expression.
Lionel raised his hat.
"I beg your pardon.