What is there about travelling that makes a person open his heart to a complete stranger? This question has come home to me with added force since I set out, last week, on a cross-country journey to visit some friends. I had only a day for my visit and return, so rose in the early dawn and awaited, on a chilly platform, the arrival of the 6.3 a.m. It came, shrouded and dark, and I realised, to my horror, that it was entirely full of sleeping Scots, who had been travelling southward during the night. 

At last I plucked up courage to enter a compartment where a Scotswoman was taking her early cup of tea. She smiled a welcome -- the night had been long and lonely and she was ready for company. 

"This is refreshing," said she. "I've been travelling all night from Morayshire. D'you know Morayshire?" 

I did not, so she told me about it. Before we reached London I knew as much of her family history as I know of many of my friends. 

It was necessary, on reaching London, to find a coach terminus and the right coach to take me further south. A travel agency's representative took me in tow and, from the usual polite interchanges of conversation, passed suddenly] to details of his private life.

 "My wife," he remarked,” left me this morning." It was rather staggering and I searched for the appropriate reply. How did I know if he were glad or sorry? I murmured noncommittally, and remained attentive. By the time the coach departed, he had sketched for me his married life, from courtship to desertion, with sidelights on his own and his wife's characters. I parted from him reluctantly, having been given the early chapters of a first-rate novel.

In the coach I sat digesting what I had heard and so was ignored by my fellow-passengers, but the return journey made up for it. 

Tired with my visit, I had sunk back in my seat when I caught, from the tail of my eye, the hopeful look on the “face of the man parallel. For a time I pretended to sleep, and saw him time and again look over, his face one eager desire to tell someone, anyone, what was on his mind. Poor man! Suppose he collapsed with suppressed excitement? I took pity, opened my eyes and let my glance catch his. He heaved a sigh of relief, sat up and offered a cigarette. It was, I knew, no gallant advance, but a peace-offering. I was to play the part of patient listener. 

"I've been buying a business," said he, as he offered a light. "Oh," said l, “what sort of a business?" 

"Cooked meats," said he, " and a cafe. Not much of a place to look at, it ain't; the man what had it let it go to ruin, but I'll make it pay. I said to him: 'Give you five pounds to clear out, and it's all it’s worth'". “He was well away now, and I listened in silence. When he paused for breath, I asked: 

"Have you been in that line before?" He gasped. "Have I? Ten years I was in the ‘Ackney Road. ‘Know the 'Ackney Road ,Miss?" I didn't, but it did not matter. For the next half-hour we lived among its inhabitants; I was introduced to the poor but honest, and the not-so-poor but distinctly dishonest. --"steal anything they would, but not off me. 'Bill', they said,'you're all right, you are.' I understood ‘em, miss, you see. Oh yes, I've met some funny people in my time. Spent two years in Persia. Funny place Persia, Miss? Know it?" 

I didn't, so we travelled Persia for the next half-hour. As we ran into London, he was still among the natives, and handed me from the coach without — stopping his story. Then he came to himself, and held out a reluctant hand.

 "Well, I won't say good-bye, we may meet again?" he said, awarding me the palm of the perfect listener, and watched me out of sight. 

In the midnight train for home, I slept in reality, waking with a start at my journey's end. As I rose to alight, I caught the look of frustration on my neighbour's face. She had been waiting, story ready, for me  to wake up and it was too late to tell it.