r love for the old town, just as she had no
particular love for her little brother's country-house. She was too
bored to care in the least where she was, and only a few people in the
world could soothe her vexed and discontented mind to a sense of calm.
The woman to visit whom she was on her way was one of these, and as she
bought her ticket and made her way to the train a little of her
ill-temper died away. "Good old Pam," she whispered under her veil,
"_she_ will be glad I didn't take Ponty!"

Then there would be the children--six-years-old Pammy, the De Lenskys'
adopted child, and their own little Eliza and Thaddy--the latter a
delicious, roundabout person of eighteen months, the very feel of whom
was comforting.

"An empty carriage, if there is one, please," she asked the guard, and
he opened a door and helped her into a still unlit compartment. She
closed the door and, letting down the glass, leaned her head on her hand
and watched, through the veil she always wore when travelling as a
protection against impertinent and boring admiration, the little crowd
on the platform.

Most of them looked, thank Heaven, second class--she would be alone. And
then, just at the last, three men, all apparently very much excited and
speaking French very loudly, rushed at her door and tore it open.
"_Adieu donc, cher maitre_"--"_Bon voyage_"--"_Au 'voir, mes
enfants--merci infiniment_"--"_Mille tendresses a Eugenie!_"

And the train had started, leaving Brigit alone in the dusk with a very
big man in a fur-collared overcoat and a long box, that he deposited
with much care on the seat, humming to himself as he did so. Then he sat
down and, taking off his broad-brimmed felt hat, wiped his forehead and
face with a handkerchief that smelt strongly of violets.

Lady Brigit shrank fastidiously into her corner. Another thing to bore
her. She was of those women who always hate their fellow-travellers and
resent their existence. And this man was too big, there was too much fur
on his coat, too much scent on his handkerchief. "_Salut demeure chaste
et pure_," he began singing, suddenly, apparently quite unconscious of
his companion's presence. "_Salut demeure_----" It was a high baritone
voice, sweet and round, and his r's were like Theo Joyselle's. Brigit
smiled. Dear Theo! Her mother could be as nasty as she liked, but they
would be happy in spite of her. And then, as in the beginning of the
world, it was light, and the girl recognised