e these came from,"
and off he goes again. Fortunately he turns to Cousin JANE, and
instantly I close my eyes, and pretend to be overcome by fatigue. If
JANE is wise she will do the same. JANE is tired, but tolerant.

Finding that neither of us is up to much talking (I have inadvertently
opened an eye) he says, "Look here, I'll show you my travelling-bag," as
if it was something to amuse children. This delights him immensely. He
opens it and explains its compartments, tells how he shaves, what soap
he uses, how he invented a peculiar pomade for travelling, and how he
had thought out this bag and had everything made to fit into its place.
He takes out everything, brushes, combs, razors, glass-pots, knives,
brushes, one after the other, expatiating on their excellence as if he
were a pedlar anxious to do a deal, and we were his casual, but likely,
customers. Then finding our interest waning, he shuts it up, and saying
that the best of travelling in a _lit-salon_ is that you can stretch
your legs, he forthwith begins capering, asks JANE if he mayn't have the
pleasure of the next waltz and so forth, until fortunately, he discovers
the secret of the seat which pulls out and becomes a bed, and is so
struck with the idea that he exclaims, "By Jove! this is first-rate!
pillows, mattresses, everything! I've never slept in one of these! I
haven't been to bed all night. You don't mind my taking forty winks--do
you?"

O dear no--take eighty if he likes.

"Ah, then," he says in broken English, "I go to couch myself. I salute
you the good morning, Mister and Missis. I have well envy of to sleep."
And thank goodness in another minute the high-spirited Solicitor is fast
asleep, and _not_ snoring.

Then we all drop off. At Montargis he awakes, breakfasts at the buffet:
we breakfast in our _salon_. He returns, puffing another cigar, stronger
and bigger than the previous one: but smoking yields to sleeping and his
high spirits become less and less. After his second or third sleep he
becomes hungry. The train is late. He becomes hungrier and hungrier.
Again he smokes; but his cigars are dwindling in size and growing paler
in colour. He calculates when the hour of dinner will be. He foresees
that it will not be till past eight and we breakfasted at eleven. Hunger
has deprived him of all his jokes, all his high spirits; he is
hopelessly depressed, and preserves an almost sullen silence till we
reach Clermont-Ferrand, when the sight of th