Selden paused in surprise.

    In the afternoon rush
           of the Grand Central Station
               his eyes
        had been
              refreshed by the sight
                   of Miss Lily Bart.

    It was a Monday
           in early September,
         and he
            was returning to his work
                   from a hurried
                 dip into the country;
        but what
            was Miss Bart
                  doing in town
                       at that season?

    If she
        had appeared
              to be catching a train,
           he might have inferred
             that he
                had come
                       on her
                     in the act of transition
                       between one
                           and another of the country-houses
                  which disputed her presence
                      after the close
                           of the Newport season;
        but her desultory air
               perplexed him.

    She stood
           apart from the crowd,
         letting it drift
               by her to the platform
              or the street,
         and wearing an air
               of irresolution
              which might,
           as he surmised,
         be the mask
               of a very definite purpose.

    It struck him at once
         that she
            was waiting for some one,
           but he hardly knew
             why the idea arrested him.

    There was nothing new
           about Lily Bart,
         yet he
            could never see her
             without a faint movement
                   of interest:
        it was characteristic of her
             that she always roused speculation,
           that her simplest acts
            seemed the result
                   of far-reaching intentions.

    An impulse of curiosity
          made him turn
               out of his direct
             line to the door,
           and stroll past her.

    He knew that
         if she
            did not wish
                  to be seen
             she would contrive
                  to elude him;
        and it amused him
              to think
                   of putting her skill
                 to the test.

    "Mr. Selden
          --what good luck!"

    She came forward smiling,
           eager almost,
         in her resolve
              to intercept him.

    One or two persons,
           in brushing past them,
         lingered to look;
        for Miss Bart
            was a figure to arrest
             even the suburban traveller
                  rushing to his last train.

    Selden had never
          seen her more radiant.

    Her vivid head,
           relieved against the dull tints
               of the crowd,
         made her more conspicuous
               than in a ball-room,
           and under her dark hat
               and veil
             she regained the girlish smoothness,
         the purity of tint,
           that she
            was beginning
                  to lose
                      after eleven years
                           of late hours
                         and indefatigable dancing.

    Was it really eleven years,
           Selden found himself wondering,
         and had
             she indeed
                  reached the nine-and-twentieth birthday
             with which her rivals
                   credited her?

    "What luck!"

    she repeated.

    "How nice of you
          to come to my rescue!"

    He responded joyfully
         that to do so
            was his mission in life,
           and asked
             what form the rescue
                was to take.

    "Oh,
           almost any
          --even to sitting
               on a bench and
              talking to me.

    One sits out a cotillion
          --why not
              sit out a train?

    It isn't
           a bit hotter here
      than in Mrs. Van Osburgh's
                conservatory
          --and some of the women
            are not a bit uglier."

    She broke off,
           laughing,
         to explain
             that she
                had come
                       up to town from Tuxedo,
           on her way
               to the Gus Trenors'
             at Bellomont,
         and had
           missed the three-fifteen
                 train to Rhinebeck.

    "And there isn't another
         till half-past five."

    She consulted
           the little jewelled watch
         among her laces.

    "Just two hours to wait.

    And I don't know
         what to do with myself.

    My maid
        came up this morning
          to do some shopping
               for me,
           and was
              to go
                   on to Bellomont
                 at one o'clock,
         and my aunt's house
            is closed,
           and I
              don't know a soul