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Marsland picked up the Paris train at Montreux Station. He had reserved a corner seat, and he followed his fat porter who was all slung about with hand-luggage in an operation that always suggested to him an assault upon a walled city. There was much congestion in the corridor, but Marsland’s porter ploughed through, only to be held up outside the door of the compartment that contained Marsland’s seat.

“Numero treize.”

Was it an omen? He had not noticed that the number of his seat was thirteen.

Meanwhile, the creator of the obstruction displayed himself as a very large man in brown tweeds and a cloth cap, French, with a face as hard and as flat as a board with two holes bored in it for eyes. The Frenchman was lugging through the window an interminable collection of suit-cases, bags, dressing cases and parcels which were being passed to him by a porter below. They blocked the entrance to the particular compartment, but that anybody should be kept waiting seemed to be a matter of indifference to the Frenchman.

Marsland stood and watched, while his porter fumed, but the man in tweeds was not to be dispossessed of the doorway. He blocked it until all his impedimenta were inside, and then with that delightful courtesy of a Frenchman when his own convenience had been served, he said “Pardon” to Marsland and let him in.

There were two women and a small boy in the compartment. Marsland’s reserved seat was in the window corner facing the engine, and one of the women was sitting in it, a confection of a woman with a face like a peach that has hung in the sun all the season and remained miraculously sour. The porter explained the situation. This was the gentleman’s seat. The woman glared at him, and moved into a corner on the corridor side.

Marsland’s porter was proceeding to load his luggage into the rack when the Frenchman tapped him on the shoulder. Marsland’s French was not facile, but the dumb show sufficed. The man in tweeds was insisting that Marsland’s luggage should occupy only that portion of the rack to which his seat entitled him. The French family owned all the rest of the first-class compartment and its rack accommodation, and they needed it.

Marsland sat down.

“Pleasant people,” he thought; “there may be something in thirteen.”

Now, Geoffrey Marsland was a man whose urge in life was to settle down, even in a railway carriage. He was forty-five, and looked thirty-five, one of those out-of-door creatures who remain profoundly simple and sentimental. He had sold out in Burma to come home and be English, with the help of someone else, but the comfortable adventure eluded him. He had endured three months of hotels and trains and restlessness. He had been winter-sporting with a crowd of elderly gentlemen and of hectic, hungry women to whom an occasional schoolmaster or Varsity lad were totally inadequate. They had tried to fasten on Marsland and had found him inarticulate, difficult and shy.

Marsland had a novel to read, but life was not going to allow him to read as he pleased. It was Oscar Wilde who said that a certain novelist wrote at the top of his voice; madame behaved at the top of hers. Never had Marsland heard a woman talk as she talked, like a machine-gun and a loud-speaker and a cantatrice all in action together. She had a peculiarly harsh-speaking voice. She was one of those women who are always in public and never private when the male is near, and as a matter of fact she was a very public person, but of that Marsland was ignorant at the moment.

He had the lady in the corner on his left, Monsieur Flatface confronting her, and the girl in the window corner opposite him. The child, a little blond boy of six, fidgeted about the carriage after the fashion of children, kicked people’s feet, and stared at Marsland. Marsland liked children, and he liked the face of the child.

But being English he had left a portion of his window down, and madame became impatient in a luxurious fur coat. She spoke sharply to the girl who obviously was the child’s governess.

“Close that window, m’amselle.”

The girl looked bothered. It had been her lot to have all sorts of unpleasant functions thrust upon her. She glanced anxiously, and deprecatingly at Marsland. She spoke in English.

“Would you mind having the window up?”

So, she was English. He smiled at her a little whimsically.

“It is my window.”

“Yes—I know, but madame has to be very careful of her throat.”

She looked frightened and apologetic, a dark, slight creature who took life rather seriously, and the appeal in her brown eyes was sufficient for Geoffrey Marsland.

“Certainly.”

He shut the window, and the girl thanked him, but neither madame nor her husband expressed approval. They exchanged satisfied glances as though the barbarian in the corner had been put in his place.

The child, who had been observing Marsland, planted himself on the girl’s knees. He, too, spoke English.

“When do we get to Paris?”

“About ten o’clock, dear.”

“And what is it now?”

“About two o’clock.”

“Six hours.”

“Is two from ten—six?”

The boy and Marsland twinkled at each other. Madame was talking hard to a partner who looked as though he was still digesting a large and hurried lunch. But the interplay at the other end of the carriage did not include madame, and as a celebrity she had to be included in everything. She took off her hat and displayed a wealth of brassy hair that made her face look even more like a confection. She had curious, floating, sensual blue eyes, a sharp nose, and two hard lines sloping to meet her mouth. She put up her feet on the seat, and arranged a cushion behind her.

“Come—my son—my son.”

The girl pushed the boy towards her. He was clutched, enveloped, and drawn to the lady’s breast. She kissed him voluminously and for effect, as though the osculatory act must always have some effect upon male observers. The barbarian in the corner was not glancing in her direction, and motherly tenderness was the pose of the moment.

She chattered to the child, but even when uttering endearments her voice was staged. She kissed the top of the child’s head, and mauled him with hands whose nails were tinted red. To Marsland it was a disgusting exhibition. She held the child prone upon her body and pawed him as though he were a lover. And the boy, the strangely sensitive product of two such parents, was self-conscious and unhappy. His father had removed his cap and displayed a head the top of which had been cut off flat. Monsieur was reading the financial news in his Paris paper.

Madame kept looking at Marsland. Could not the barbarian realize that a most attractive and sexually disturbing woman was embracing her child. Were not such embraces intriguing? But Marsland was watching the governess, but with the carefulness of a man who was not a larded bull.

He was thinking—“She’s the first girl with gentle eyes I’ve seen—since when?”

But it struck him that she looked rather white. She had closed her eyes. Possibly she had a headache.

Meanwhile, the boy had escaped into the corridor, and madame, finding both males irresponsive, commenced to sing. She began with a sort of crooning murmur, but the murmur grew into a monotonous, operatic declaiming. Never before had Marsland heard a woman singing in a first-class carriage. It wasn’t done; it did not happen. Confound the woman! How long was this sort of thing going on? He would get hold of an official and try to change his compartment.

He happened to glance at the governess’s face. The girl was very white. What was it—train-sickness?

The singing ceased abruptly. Madame was taking off her shoes. Well, really! Two plump feet in beige coloured stockings sat close to him.

“Mees Romney——”

The girl’s eyes opened.

“Yes, madame?”

“Rub my legs and feet.”

She got up meekly and began to massage madame’s members. Madame sang something from Wagner. Avis Romney was feeling more and more sick. But one could not be sick in a train with any degree of comfort or decency, and her hold on her job was none too secure.

Marsland watched operations out of a corner of his eye. The girl’s pale profile contrasted with the tinted glare of that insolently handsome countenance. Madame’s feet stuck up close to the Englishman, like fleshy, succulent, heavily perfumed growths. Avis Romney’s hands were patting and stroking the fine legs.

“Well I’m damned!” thought Marsland; “the woman’s a——”

But he could only utter the word in secret, but it did occur to him that inadvertently one might drop hot cigarette ash on one of those feet.

He would change his compartment if that woman was going to sing and exhibit herself all the way to Paris!

But just as quickly instead of changing his compartment, he changed his mind. The governess was once more in her corner—looking ghastly. She glanced at the window.

Marsland understood. Without a by your leave he lowered the window six inches, stood up, spoke.

“Please try my seat. It is pleasanter facing the engine.”

She gave him a look of gratitude.

“Oh—I couldn’t——”

“Why not? I don’t mind which way I sit.”

They changed places. The singing had ceased. Madame was incensed. She put on her shoes. She shuddered. She drew the corridor door to with a slam. She began to speak volubly to her husband.

“I am to be frozen. It is abominable. People think of nothing but themselves. Egotists. We have paid for five seats. Shut the window, Albert.”

Albert looked sullen. He glanced at Marsland, and then got up and shut the window.

Madame preened herself.

Marsland, after a strategic pause, relowered his window.

“Excuse me—my window.”

Madame looked outraged. What manners! These English! She glared at her husband, but Albert had gone to earth behind his newspaper. After all, that fellow in the other corner was not the only egotist. Monsieur had been married to madame for eleven years, and she was a celebrity. Celebrities can be devastating people.

Madame glared at Marsland, flounced up, slammed back the door and joined her small son in the corridor.

The governess looked less white. She opened her eyes, and saw that there was peace. She smiled faintly at Marsland. He smiled back at her. Madame and the child had edged along the corridor and were invisible, but the lady was singing as though indulging in throat-massage.

Monsieur put down his paper. His queer, flat face with its depressed nose suggested that his father had begotten him in Cochin-China, but his bulk was French, and so were his small sensual brown eyes. He was looking at the governess. Marsland, pretending to read, saw a hand in a wash-leather glove persuasively patting the seat.

“Damn the fellow!” thought he.

He glanced at the girl. She was looking scared. The yellow hand still patted the seat.

“Come and give me a little lesson, m’amselle.”

Making love to the governess, what! Marsland felt like giving the lesson.

The girl came and sat on the seat between them, but nearer to monsieur than to Marsland. She sat erect and stiff. She was both afraid of monsieur, and afraid of offending him.

“Shall we try some pronunciation?”

He ogled her.

“Yes, such funny words—you have. I ought to improve my vocabulary. Now, what is that—in English.”

He laid a hand on her knee, and out of the corner of an eye Marsland saw her hand dart out and remove his paw as though brushing dirt from her dress.

The Frenchman’s little brown eyes were like the eyes of some nasty tempered animal.

“You do not understand my little joke?”

She was frightened, embarrassed.

“What little joke, monsieur?”

Again the yellow hand appeared, and Marsland thought—“If you put that paw of yours on the child’s knee again—I’ll——” but his intervention was delayed. Madame appeared suddenly, holding Pierre by the hand. She swung the door to, sat down, and began to say things to monsieur. The boy, perched on the edge of the seat—looked perplexed and unhappy.

Monsieur waved yellow and expostulating hands. He growled—Quelle femme! The girl had slipped across into Marsland’s seat, and sat squeezed in the corner, her eyes looking out of the window. Marsland pretended to be absorbed in his book.

Then, monsieur staged a diversion. Something must stop that voluble red mouth. He jumped up and hauled a tea-basket from the rack. He sat down again with it on his knees, and opened the lid.

He became jocular. He wagged a yellow finger at his son.

“Allons. Let us attack.”

The basket contained white cardboard cartons full of paté sandwiches and patisserie. Monsieur, very politely, held out one of the boxes to madame. Her eyes grew greedy. She dipped a hand in the box, extracted a white ice cake, bit off part of it, and gave the rest to the boy.

“Mother has made it sweet—darling.”

Marsland fumed inwardly. He wanted to say to her—“Yes, you’ve got a face like one of those damned cakes and a soul like a squashed jam-tart. What you want is a dog whip once a day. And isn’t the girl to have anything?”

Obviously, she was not. The family consumed sandwiches and cakes in bulk, and with sugary satisfaction. No box was proffered to the girl in the corner. Certainly, the child did turn towards her with an éclair in his hand, but his mother tweaked his hair.

“Do not fidget, my son. Mees Romney does not wish to be disturbed.”

For, in spite of that slip of open window, which madame appeared to have forgotten, Miss Romney was feeling sick. She had been packing for those people half the morning; her lunch had been a scrappy affair. In fact—she was empty, and her inner woman, denied reasonable occupation, became spiteful and squeamish. Why didn’t it get its share of those cakes? Denied, it protested that the cakes were messy and emetic. But, if Miss Romney wasn’t careful, it would show her something.

She rose suddenly with an air of desperate and pathetic haste.

Said madame—“You can pack up the basket.”

But Miss Romney was packing no baskets. She did not even speak. She escaped into the corridor.

Madame looked shocked. “That girl’s moods are beyond me.”

Marsland hesitated for a moment. Then he stood up, took a dressing-case from the rack, opened it on the seat so that the family should not see its contents, and extracted a whisky flask and a packet of chocolate, and slipped them into a pocket.

“Excuse me.”

His politeness was ironical. He stepped over monsieur’s legs into the corridor, and saw the girl standing outside the next compartment but one. She was holding to the metal rail, and had the window open, and her hair was blowing about her ears. She looked so wan and alone that Marsland’s involvement in the affair became serious.

He went and stood beside her and his eyes were kind.

“Beastly thing—train-sickness. Drink a little of this.”

He brought out the flask, and she glanced at it and then at him.

“I—I hadn’t much lunch.”

“And no tea. I’ll pour you out a dose.”

She did not protest. She was as much in need of kindness as she was of food.

“It’s awfully good of you.”

He poured whisky into the metal cup of the flask.

“Drink it slowly. When it has warmed you up, try a little chocolate. I expect the idea is rather nauseating at the moment.”

She sipped the whisky, and her dark eyes avoided his.

He said—“You need not be afraid of me, child. I’m not like the fellow in there.”

She gave him a sudden quick glance.

“Oh, no. One feels that sort of thing.”

“Why don’t you take off your hat? I’ll hold it.”

Was it that he wanted to see her without a hat? She slipped off her black chapeau. Her hair was dark and wavy, and her forehead as gentle as her eyes. He took the hat.

“That’s it. Take the wind in your hair.”

Her colour was coming back.

“I don’t know why you should be so—kind.”

Marsland smiled. He was finding it more and more pleasant being kind.

“Made that way—I suppose. Nice people you are travelling with. I like the boy.”

She said—“He’s a dear.”

They could hear madame singing in the distance.

“Does she always do that in trains?”

For the first time the girl smiled.

“She’s a very famous person. Madame Bonheur—the operatic star.”

“Never heard of her,” said Marsland, “but that’s my ignorance, I suppose. After all—I know enough French to think there’s something significant in a name.”

“Bonheur?”

And then she coloured slightly, looked confused, and finished the whisky.

“I’m the—governess.”

“Yes—I presumed so. And I suppose you packed all that confounded luggage?”

“Yes.”

“Monsieur’s too?”

“Yes. And three trunks.”

“And in Paris you will unpack it all again?”

“Yes.”

He thought—“I’m damned if you shall.”

He produced the chocolate.

“Feel up to this?”

She nodded, and her eyes were different.

“Yes, just a little.”

“Splendid stuff plain chocolate. The first dinner is at half-past six.”

He took the empty cup from her and slipped the flask back into it.

“You are looking quite different.”

She gazed out of the window.

“I—feel—different.”

They were beginning to talk of more personal things when madame appeared in the corridor. Madame was angry; madame was always angry unless she was receiving applause in some form or other. Why was mademoiselle neglecting her duty? Pierre was feeling sick, and it was Miss Romney’s business to attend to Pierre.

Marsland, unseen by madame, had passed Avis her hat. She put it on and went back to the compartment. She saw that the window had been shut. Pierre was lying on the seat in Marsland’s corner, for madame had said that if there happened to be an accident the Englishman might just as well suffer the inconvenience.

Avis gathered up Pierre and sat down in her own corner with the child in her lap. Marsland had followed her, and she glanced from his face to the window. He nodded and drew it down.

Madame protested. Her precious throat and her comfort were the most important things in the carriage. Besides, the child would catch a dreadful cold.

But the child piped up—“I like the air, maman. It makes me feel good.”

Madame shrugged. Change seats with monsieur? No, she could not travel with her back to the engine. She would shiver; she would be a martyr. She covered herself with a rug, and went to sleep.

So did Pierre, and so did Miss Romney. Monsieur sulked in his corner behind a paper. Marsland, with the novel on his knees, sat and watched the girl’s face. He observed the long lashes, the gentle, poignant mouth, the delicate chin. The poor child was tired out. How delightful it had been looking after her. He would like to go on looking after her. She was sitting in seat No. 13, but perhaps No. 13 had a mysterious and happy meaning on this particular occasion.

Twilight came. The landscape was growing dim. The lights were turned on. A restaurant-car attendant appeared in the corridor with a little book of tickets. He opened the door. Places for dinner. Marsland asked for one. Monsieur asked for four, but madame was awake. Four? Most certainly not. Three. The girl could finish the sandwiches and cakes in the basket. Monsieur took three tickets. Avis and the child slept.

Presently a bell rang. Monsieur and madame got up with alacrity. Madame woke the child.

“Dinner—my son.”

She smiled icily at Avis.

“You may finish the cakes, Mees Romney.”

They went out.

Marsland looked at the girl. He was smiling, but he was angry. He said—“The pigs have gone to dine. Don’t they expect anybody else to require food?”

She looked whimsical.

“There is the tea basket.”

“I am going to empty their damned tea basket out of the window. Here, take this.”

He held out the ticket, and she blushed.

“Oh, but I couldn’t—really. You——”

“I can take my luck presently.”

She looked embarrassed.

“No—I’d rather not.”

He guessed that she had not enough money to pay for a dinner.

“I say—forgive me, is it a question of—cash?”

She nodded, and he took a sudden decision.

“Wait a moment. I’ll go along and see if there happens to be a spare place. Now—I forbid you to touch those cakes.”

She smiled up at him.

“But I haven’t any money.”

“Don’t you worry your head about that,” and he disappeared upon the adventure.

Marsland found that the restaurant car was not full, and he tipped the chief attendant and secured seats at one of the little tables for two in the second compartment. Monsieur, madame and Pierre were in the first, and deeply embedded in their soup. Marsland hurried back through three swaying coaches to find Miss Romney waiting in the corridor. He had a triumphant air.

“Quite all right. There is plenty of room.”

He was aware of something in her eyes. What was it? Humiliation? His compassion saluted her pride.

“Will you do me the honour of being my guest?”

She hesitated.

“I should like to—send you——”

He looked hurt.

“Oh, come. It’s such a little thing after all. We are going to get to know each other—at least, I hope so. My name’s Marsland—Geoffrey Marsland. I have come home to settle down in England—I mean, if I can find—— Let me give you dinner, my dear.”

She looked into his brown face, and smiled, and accepted both the “dear” and the dinner.

It was to be a miraculous meal. The French family were so absorbed in their food that they did not see Marsland and the girl pass their table. Marsland made her take the seat facing the engine.

“I say—I’m hungry.”

“So am I.”

“Feeling quite all right now? You look it.”

“Do I?”

His “Rather” made her blush. He was looking at the wine list and he ordered champagne.

“You’ll forgive me, won’t you?”

“What?”

“The champagne. It’s not a habit with me.”

She laughed.

“Ordering champagne—for—any casual—young person——”

With his elbows on the table he looked her straight in the eyes.

“If you think that—I’ll go back to the carriage.”

“Please don’t do that.”

“Then, you admit that you are not a casual young person from—my point of view?”

Again she blushed.

“I’m a girl who has to earn her living. You see—I——”

“Do you like earning your living? But that’s rude of me. Most modern women are supposed to love it.”

She looked at the soup that had been placed in front of her.

“As a matter of fact—I loathe it.”

“I should say so—with people like that.”

They were half-way through dinner and becoming happy and easy with each other when Marsland met a pair of eyes. Madame had discovered them; she had recognized Miss Romney’s back, and she was announcing the discovery to her husband. Monsieur turned his flat head and stared. Madame looked outraged, and Marsland smiled at her distant indignation. Avis was unaware of the sensation they had caused, and he did not disillusion her. If there was going to be a row presently, he would be very much in it.

The scene was inevitable. Madame was waiting in the corridor, with Pierre and monsieur safely shut inside. She ignored Marsland and spoke insolently to the girl.

“A few words with you, mees.”

Marsland saw Avis turn and look at him, and he entered the compartment and shut the door. His participation came later.

Madame raged.

“Scandalous. Getting fresh with a strange man. A nice example for the child. You are dismissed. You need not come with us to the flat.”

Avis went white.

“I was hungry, madame, and——”

“Hungry! For sex—I suppose. You will leave us at the Gare de Lyon.”

“But, madame—I have hardly any money.”

“That’s not my affair, after this behaviour. Yes, go and see the English consul. I shall know what to say if he complains. Or perhaps this new monsieur will take you to an hotel—and pay.”

Miss Romney did not let that pass.

“I suppose that is your idea of—life, madame—but I am still young, and you—middle-aged——”

Madame’s indignation was operatic. She—middle-aged? Insolence. But those words had penetrated her powdered, perfumed and massaged skin. She flounced into the carriage, flopped down in her seat, and burst into tears, and when a Frenchwoman weeps the dead may be expected to rise.

“I have been insulted—disgracefully insulted.”

Monsieur looked alarmed. Pierre, staring at his mother, made one of those ruthless and innocent remarks that can come from the lips of a child.

“Don’t cry, maman; it makes your face look funny and old.”

Marsland went out into the corridor and closed the door. He said: “She’s got it in the neck. I suppose——”

Miss Romney gripped the rail.

“Yes—I’m dismissed. I’m to leave them at the Gare de Lyon.”

Marsland looked both concerned and fierce.

“Well—I’m——. And you——?”

She stared out of the window.

“Yes.”

“And it’s all my fault.”

But she would not allow that.

“Oh, no—you’ve been——”

He put one of his hands close to hers on the rail.

“You had better come straight back to England.”

“But—I haven’t a ticket, and——”

His hand touched hers.

“Look here, my dear—it’s up to me. I’m crossing by the night boat. Let me find you a ticket. No, please don’t think—— This train has been—what you might call destiny—from my point of view.”

She stood and looked out of the window at the night.

“I don’t know. I——”

“Have you anyone you can go to in England?”

“Yes.”

“Well—it’s really quite simple, Avis. I mean—it might be—if you—— What I mean is—when you have seen a bit more of me—you might be willing to let me ask you something. Would you?”

She seemed to smile mysteriously into the darkness.

“Yes—dear—I might.”