future labour member, was consoling herself with meat sandwiches. The
niece was demolishing sausage rolls. The atmosphere of the carriage
was charged with a blend of odours, topping all Ukridge's cigar, now
in full blast.

The train raced on towards the sea. It was a warm day, and a torpid
peace began to settle down upon the carriage. Ukridge had thrown away
the stump of his cigar, and was now leaning back with his mouth open
and his eyes shut. Aunty, still clutching a much-bitten section of a
beef sandwich, was breathing heavily and swaying from side to side.
Albert and the niece were dozing, Albert's jaws working automatically,
even in sleep.

"What's your book, my dear?" asked the Irishman.

" 'The Manoeuvres of Arthur,' father. By Jeremy Garnet."

I would not have believed without the evidence of my ears that my name
could possibly have sounded so musical.

"Molly McEachern gave it to me when I left the Abbey. She keeps a
shelf of books for her guests when they are going away. Books that she
considers rubbish, and doesn't want, you know."

I hated Miss McEachern without further evidence.

"And what do you think of it?"

"I like it," said the girl decidedly. The carriage swam before my
eyes. "I think it is very clever."