"That's the Highlands," said the Professor.

"Ay," said McCurdie.

Lord Doyne said nothing, but tugged at his moustache and looked out of
the window as the frozen meadows and bits of river and willows raced
past. A dead silence fell on them. McCurdie broke it with another laugh
and took a whiskey flask from his hand-bag.

"Have a nip?"

"Thanks, no," said the Professor. "I have to keep to a strict dietary,
and I only drink hot milk and water--and of that sparingly. I have some
in a thermos bottle."

Lord Doyne also declining the whiskey, McCurdie swallowed a dram and
declared himself to be better. The Professor took from his bag a foreign
review in which a German sciolist had dared to question his
interpretation of a Hittite inscription. Over the man's ineptitude he
fell asleep and snored loudly.

To escape from his immediate neighbourhood McCurdie went to the other
end of the seat and faced Lord Doyne, who had resumed his gold glasses
and his listless contemplation of obscure actresses. McCurdie lit a
pipe, Doyne another black cigar. The train thundered on.

Presently they all lunched together in the restaurant car. The windows
steamed, but here and there through a wiped patch of pane a white world
was revealed. The snow was falling. As they passed through Westbury,