so far been very creditable. All was well. It was cold, eh?

Then with the ghastly miniature roar of an insane toy the train for Paris
came fumbling into the station....

We boarded it, due caution being taken that I should not escape. As a
matter of fact I held up the would-be passengers for nearly a minute by
my unaided attempts to boost my uncouth baggage aboard. Then my captors
and I blundered heavily into a compartment in which an Englishman and two
French women were seated. My _gendarmes_ established themselves on either
side of the door, a process which woke up the Anglo-Saxon and caused a
brief gap in the low talk of the women. Jolt--we were off.

I find myself with a _francaise_ on my left and an _anglais_ on my right.
The latter has already uncomprehendingly subsided into sleep. The former
(a woman of about thirty) is talking pleasantly to her friend, whom I
face. She must have been very pretty before she put on the black. Her
friend is also a _veuve_. How pleasantly they talk, of _la guerre_, of
Paris, of the bad service; talk in agreeably modulated voices, leaning a
little forward to each other, not wishing to disturb the dolt at my
right. The train tears slowly on. Both the _gendarmes_ are asleep, one
with his hand automatically grasping the handle of the door. Lest I
escape. I try all sorts of positions, for I find myself very tired. The
best is to put my cane between my legs and rest my chin on it; but even
that is uncomfortable, for the Englishman has writhed all over me by this
time and is snoring creditably. I look him over; an Etonian, as I guess.
Certain well-bred-well-fedness. Except for the position--well, _c'est la
guerre_. The women are speaking softly. "And do you know, my dear, that
they had raids again in Paris? My sister wrote me."--"One has excitement
always in a great city, my dear."--