They were particularly amused at the precautions the bigger-sized people had taken against the little waves—­cut lemons and flasks prevailed, one lady lay full length in a deck chair with a handkerchief over her face, and a very broad resolute man in a bright brown “touristy” suit walked all the way from England to France along the deck, with his legs as widely apart as Providence permitted.  These were all excellent precautions, and nobody was ill.  The personally-conducted party pursued the conductor about the deck with inquiries, in a manner that suggested to Helen’s mind the rather vulgar image of hens with a piece of bacon rind, until at last he went into hiding below.  And the young man with the thin volume of poetry stood at the stern watching England receding, looking rather lonely and sad to Miss Winchelsea’s eye.

And then came Calais and tumultuous novelties, and the young man had not forgotten Miss Winchelsea’s hold-all and the other little things.  All three girls, though they had passed Government examinations in French to any extent, were stricken with a dumb shame of their accents, and the young man was very useful.  And he did not intrude.  He put them in a comfortable carriage and raised his hat and went away.  Miss Winchelsea thanked him in her best manner—­a pleasing, cultivated manner—­and Fanny said he was “nice” almost before he was out of earshot.  “I wonder what he can be,” said Helen.  “He’s going to Italy, because I noticed green tickets in his book.”  Miss Winchelsea almost told them of the poetry, and decided not to do so.  And presently the carriage windows seized hold upon them and the young man was forgotten.  It made them feel that they were doing an educated sort of thing to travel through a country whose commonest advertisements were in idiomatic French, and Miss Winchelsea made unpatriotic comparisons because there were weedy little sign-board advertisements by the rail side instead of the broad hoardings that deface the landscape in our land.  But the north of France is really uninteresting country, and after a time Fanny reverted to Hare’s Walks, and Helen initiated lunch.  Miss Winchelsea awoke out of a happy reverie; she had been trying to realise, she said, that she was actually going to Rome, but she perceived at Helen’s suggestion that she was hungry, and they lunched out of their baskets very cheerfully.  In the afternoon they were tired and silent until Helen made tea.  Miss Winchelsea might have dozed, only she knew Fanny slept with her mouth open; and as their fellow-passengers were two rather nice, critical-looking ladies of uncertain age—­who knew French well enough to talk it—­she employed herself in keeping Fanny awake.  The rhythm of the train became insistent, and the streaming landscape outside became at last quite painful to the eye.  They were already dreadfully tired of travelling before their night’s stoppage came.

The stoppage for the night was brightened by the appearance of the young man, and his manners were all that could be desired and his French quite serviceable.