Doesn't it sound odd to you?"

Brock was icy-cold with apprehension as they walked down the line of
_wagon-lits_ in the wake of the bag-bearers. Mrs. Medcroft was as
self-possessed and as _dégagé_ as he was ill at ease and awkward. As
they ascended the steps of the carriage, she turned back to him and
said, with the most malicious twinkle in her eyes,--

"I'm not a bit nervous."

"But you've been married so much longer than I have," he responded.

Then came the disposition of the bags and parcels. She calmly directed
the porters to put the overflow into the upper berth. The _garde_ came
up to remonstrate in his most rapid French.

"But where is M'sieur to sleep if the bags go up there?" he argued.

Mrs. Medcroft dropped her toilet bag and turned to Brock with startled
eyes, her lips parted. He was standing in the passage, his two bags at
his feet, an aroused gleam in his eyes. A deep flush overspread her
face; an expression of utter rout succeeded the buoyancy of the moment
before.

"Really," she murmured and could go no farther. The loveliest pucker
came into her face. Brock waved the _garde_ aside.

"It's all right," he explained. "I shan't occupy the--I mean, I'll take
one of the other compartments." As the _garde_ opened his lips to
protest, she drew Brock inside the compartment and closed the door. Mrs.