"It's all right; my man will look out for your things,"
said the latter, as they shook hands. "We will go and get
our places."

The fat policeman at the gate touched his helmet.
A lean, elderly man in a sort of guard's uniform hobbled
obsequiously before them down the platform, opened to them
a first-class compartment with a low bow and a deprecatory
wave of the hand, and then impressively locked the door
upon them. "The engine will be the other way, my Lord,
after you leave Cannon Street," he remarked through
the open window, with earnest deference. "Are there any
of your bags that you want in the compartment with you?"

Plowden had nodded to the first remark. He shook
his head at the second. The elderly man at this,
with still another bow, flapped out a green flag which he
had been holding furled behind his back, and extended
it at arm's length. The train began slowly to move.
Mr. Thorpe reflected to himself that the peerage was by no
means so played-out an institution as some people imagined.

"Ho-ho!" the younger man sighed a yawn, as he tossed
his hat into the rack above his head. "We shall both be
the better for some pure air. London quite does me up.
And you--you've been sticking at it months on end,
haven't you? You look rather fagged--or at all events you
did yesterday. You've smartened yourself so--without
your beard--that I can't say I'd notice it to-day.