dampness of the atmosphere.

In the carriage fifth or sixth from the engine the three
fellow-travellers greeted the arrival in the orthodox way. The tall
American stretched his long limbs and groaned wearily as he got his
belongings together, while the dapper young Englishman thrust his head
out of the window and withdrew it as rapidly.

"Beastly morning!" he announced. "Paris on a wet day is like a woman
with draggled skirts."

"Get rid of our belongings first, Billy, make epigrams after!" The man
called Blake pushed him quietly aside and, stepping to the window,
dropped a leather bag into the hands of a porter.

Of the three, his manner was the most indifferent, his temper the most
unruffled; and of the three, he alone remembered the fourth occupant of
the carriage, for, being relieved of his bag, he turned with his hand
still upon the window, and his eyes sought the youthful figure drawn
with lonely isolation into its corner.

"Do you want a porter?" he asked.

The question was unexpected. The boy started and sat straighter in his
seat. For one moment he seemed to sway between two impulses, then, with
a new determination, he looked straight at his questioner with his clear
eyes.

"No," he said, speaking slowly and with a grave deliberation, "I do not
need a porter. I have no luggage--but this." He rose, as if to prove the