a railway journey (for which a man who dare keep no servant must e'en
pack, label, and address his own bag), but the necessity for holding
himself in hand before a stranger 'a little shaken in her nerves.'

He spent a long forenoon packing, because when he assembled and counted
things his mind slid off to the hours that remained of the day before
his night, and he found himself counting minutes aloud. At such times
the injustice of his fate would drive him to revolts which no servant
should witness, but on this evening Dr. Gilbert's tonic held him fairly
calm while he put up his patent razors.

Waterloo Station shook him into real life. The change for his ticket
needed concentration, if only to prevent shillings and pence turning
into minutes at the booking-office; and he spoke quickly to a porter
about the disposition of his bag. The old 10.8 from Waterloo to the West
was an all-night caravan that halted, in the interests of the milk
traffic, at almost every station.

Dr. Gilbert stood by the door of the one composite corridor-coach; an
older and stouter man behind him. 'So glad you're here!' he cried. 'Let
me get your ticket.'

'Certainly not,' Conroy answered. 'I got it myself--long ago. My bag's
in too,' he added proudly.

'I beg your pardon. Miss Henschil's here. I'll introduce you.'

'But--but,' he stammered--'think of the state I'm in. If anything
happens I shall collapse.'