by pleasantly.

Mrs. Roche enjoys the long railway journeys above everything, which
astonishes Philip, who thinks them the worst part of the trip.

"You see I so seldom go in trains," Eleanor says when he expresses
surprise. "I love to listen to the whizz of the engine, and see the
rushing, panting people on the stations worrying the grand officials in
their smart uniforms. Then it is so nice to be first-class, and lean
back on the cushions and cock up your feet if you wish. Besides, it is
awfully jolly just now to look out of the window and think."

"What do you think of?" asks her husband.

"All the beautiful presents you have given me, and the lovely house on
the terrace at Richmond where I am to live."

The pleasure she takes in little things is a daily marvel to Philip.
In the train, for instance, every moment she opens her dressing-bag, to
shake scent from a silver bottle over her hands or peep in a dainty
glass at her complexion. Each time they stop something fresh must be
bought--a bunch of grapes, a bag of red plums, flowers, and
unwholesome-looking tarts.

She actually purchases a tumbler of lager beer, drinking it with
relish, declaring it quite home-like and jolly.

Eleanor never worries about anything. Should the train be missed or
the luggage stray, it is all the same to her. An hour's wait on a dull
little platform is never grumbled at. "We'll just have to sit and
whistle," she declares, and amuses herself mimicking the porters, which
she succeeds in doing wonderfully well, while Philip, in spite of
numerous eccentricities, forgives her everything, and worships her
devotedly.

"Alas! that we have to return," he sighs, as they glide in a small boat
on the Lake of Geneva. "I must be back in the city this week."

"And you will make me _lots_ of money?" expanding her eyes and showing
her beautiful teeth.

"Won't you be contented with a little?"

"Oh, no. I want to entertain. You must bring your friends from
London, and the house you have so long neglected shall be packed with
guests."

"We'll see about that," says Philip, not liking to damp her ardour.
"YOU must remember, though, that I am not a walking gold mine, little
wife."

"Can the boatman understand what we say?"

"He only knows a smattering of English. What a strong, steady stroke
he pulls!"

Eleanor leans over the side, gazing down the clear depths. "I never
saw such wonderful water," she says, "you can see ever so fa