his personal comfort,
but he had felt annoyed when Mrs. Archdale in her turn had yielded the
corner place with foolish altruism to a French lad exchanging vociferous
farewells with his parents. When the train started the boy did not give
the seat back to the courteous Englishwoman to whom it belonged, and
Coxeter, more vexed by the matter than it was worth, would have liked to
punch the boy's head.

And yet, as he now looked straight before him, sitting upright in the
carriage which was rocking and jolting as only a French railway carriage
can rock and jolt, he realized that he himself had gained by the lad's
lack of honesty. By having thus given away something which did not
belong to her, Mrs. Archdale was now seated, if uncomfortably hemmed in
and encompassed on each side, just opposite to Coxeter himself.

Coxeter was well aware that to stare at a woman is the height of bad
breeding, but unconsciously he drew a great distinction between what is
good taste to do when one is being observed, and that which one does
when no one can catch one doing it. Without making the slightest effort,
in fact by looking straight before him, Nan Archdale fell into his
direct line of vision, and he allowed his eyes to rest on her with an
unwilling sense that there was nothing in the world he had rather they
rested on. Her appearance pleased his fastidious, rather old-fashioned
taste. Mrs. Archdale was wearing a long grey cloak. On her head was
poised a dark hat trimmed with Mercury wings; it rested lightly on the
pale golden hair which formed so agreeable a contrast to her deep blue
eyes.

Coxeter did not believe in luck; the word which means so much to many
men had no place in his vocabulary, or even in his imagination. But,
still, the sudden appearance of Mrs. Archdale in the great Paris station
had been an agreeable surprise, one of those incidents which, just
because of their unexpectedness, make a man feel not only pleased with
himself, but at one with the world.

Before Mrs. Archdale had come up to the carriage door at which he was
standing, several things had contributed to put Coxeter in an
ill-humour.

It had seemed to his critical British phlegm that he was surrounded,
immersed against his will, in floods of emotion. Among his fellow
travellers the French element predominated. Heavens! how they
talked--jabbered would be the better word--laughed and cried! How they
hugged and embraced one another! Coxeter thanked God he