“He’s in the next compartment! ...  He must have hidden himself till nearly the last minute on the boat and then got into the train while we were sending off that telegram.”

Audrey blenched.

“Shall you wake her?”

“Wake her, and have a scene—­with us here?  No, I shan’t.  He’s a fool.”

“How d’you know?” asked Audrey.

“Well, he must have been a fool to marry her.”

“Well,” whispered Audrey.  “If I’d been a man I’d have married that face like a shot.”

“It might be all right if he’d only married the face.  But he’s married what she calls her mind.”

“Is he young?”

“Yes.  And as good-looking in his own way as she is.”

“Well—­”

But the Countess of Southminster stirred, and the slight movement stopped conversation.

The journey was endless, but it was no longer than the sleep of the Countess.  At length dusk and mist began to gather in the hollows of the land; stations succeeded one another more frequently.  The reflections of the electric lights in the compartment could be seen beyond the glass of the windows.  The train still ruthlessly clattered and shook and swayed and thundered; and weary lords, ladies and financiers had read all the illustrated magazines and six-penny novels in existence, and they lolled exhausted and bored amid the debris of literature and light refreshments.  Then the speed of the convoy slackened, and Audrey, looking forth, saw a pale cathedral dome resting aloft amid dark clouds.  It was a magical glimpse, and it was the first glimpse of Paris.  “Oh!” cried Audrey, far more like a girl than a widow.  The train rattled through defiles of high twinkling houses, roared under bridges, screeched, threaded forests of cold blue lamps, and at last came to rest under a black echoing vault.

Paris!

And, mysteriously, all Audrey’s illusions concerning France had been born again.  She was convinced that Paris could not fail to be paradisiacal.

Lady Southminster awoke.

Almost simultaneously a young man very well dressed passed along the corridor.  Lady Southminster, with an awful start, seized her bag and sprang after him, but was impeded by other passengers.  She caught him only after he had descended to the platform, which was at the bottom of a precipice below the windows.  He had just been saluted by, and given orders to, a waiting valet.  She caught him sharply by the arm.  He shook free and walked quickly away up the platform, guided by a wise instinct for avoiding a scene in front of fellow-travellers.  She followed close after him, talking with rapidity.  They receded.  Audrey and Miss Ingate leaned out of the windows to watch, and still farther and farther out.  Just as the honeymooning pair disappeared altogether their two forms came into contact, and Audrey’s eyes could see the arm of Lord Southminster take the arm of Lady Southminster.  They vanished from view like one flesh.  And Audrey and Miss Ingate, deserted, forgotten utterly, unthanked, buffeted by passengers and by the valet who had climbed up into the carriage to take away the impedimenta of his master, gazed at each other and then burst out laughing.