his
self-satisfaction did not go so far as to make him suppose that he
entirely understood women; there had been a time when he had thought
so, but that was a long while ago.

He began reading his newspaper. There was a most interesting article on
education. After having glanced at this, he studied more carefully
various little items of social news which reminded him that he had been
away from London for some weeks. Then, as he read on, the conversation
between Nan Archdale and the man next to her became more audible to him.
All the other people in the carriage were French, and so first one, and
then the other, window had been closed.

His ears had grown accustomed to the muffled, thundering sounds caused
by the train, and gradually he became aware that Nan Archdale was
receiving some singular confidences from the man with whom she was now
speaking. The fellow was actually unrolling before her the whole of his
not very interesting life, and by degrees Coxeter began rather to
overhear than to listen consciously to what was being said.

The Jew, though English by birth, now lived in France. As a young man he
had failed in business in London, and then he had made a fresh start
abroad, apparently impelled thereto by his great affection for his
mother. The Jewish race, so Coxeter reminded himself, are admirable in
every relation of private life, and it was apparently in order that his
mother might not have to alter her style of living that the person on
whom Mrs. Archdale was now fixing her attention had finally accepted a
post in a Paris house of business--no, not financial, something
connected with the sweetmeat trade.

Coxeter gathered that the speaker had at last saved enough money to make
a start for himself, and that now he was very prosperous. He spoke of
what he had done with legitimate pride, and when describing the struggle
he had gone through, the fellow used a very odd expression, "It wasn't
all jam!" he said. Now he was in a big way of business, going over to
London every three months, partly in connection with his work, partly to
see his old mother.

Behind his newspaper Coxeter told himself that it was amazing any human
being should tell so much of his private concerns to a stranger. Even
more amazing was it that a refined, rather peculiar, woman like Nan
Archdale should care to listen to such a commonplace story. But
listening she was, saying a word here and there, asking, too, very
quaint, practical qu