Medcroft was agitated.

"Oh, what a wretched _contretemps_!" she cried in despair. "Roxy has
made a frightful mess of it, after all. He has _not_ taken a compartment
for you. I'm--I'm afraid you'll have to take this one and--and let me go
in with--"

"Nonsense!" he broke in. "Nothing of the sort! I'll find a bed, never
fear. I daresay there's plenty of room on the train. You shan't sleep
with the servants. And don't lie awake blaming poor old Rox. He's
lonesome and unhappy, and he--"

"But he has a place to sleep," she lamented. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Brock.
It's perfectly horrid, and I'm--I'm dreadfully afraid you won't be able
to get a berth. Roxbury tried yesterday for a lower for himself."

"And he--couldn't get one?"

"No, Mr. Brock. But I'll ask the maids to give up their--"

"Please, please don't worry--and please don't call me Mr. Brock. I hate
the name. Good night! Now don't think about me. I'll be all right.
You'll find me as gay as a lark in the morning."

He did not give her a chance for further protest, but darted out of the
compartment. As he closed the door he had the disquieting impression
that she was sitting upon the edge of her berth, giggling hysterically.

The _garde_ listened to his demand for a separate compartment with the
dejection of a capable French attendant who is ever ready with joint