“Travelling is very expensive to-day,” pronounced Mr. Kuvetli.
“But …”
The argument rambled on, pointless and stupid; a mask for the antagonism between José and the Mathis. Graham listened with half his mind. He knew that sooner or later Banat must look at him and he wanted to see that look. Not that it would tell him anything that he did not already know, but he wanted to see it just the same. He could look at Mathis and yet see Banat out of the corner of his eye. Banat raised the glass of brandy to his lips and drank some of it; then, as he put the glass down, he looked directly at Graham.
Graham leaned back in his chair.
“… but,” Mathis was saying, “compare the service one receives. On the train there is a couchette in a compartment with others. One sleeps-perhaps. There is waiting at Belgrade for the coaches from Bucharest and at Trieste for the coaches from Budapest. There are passport examinations in the middle of the night and terrible food in the day. There is the noise and there is the dust and soot. I cannot conceive …”
Graham drained his glass. Banat was inspecting him: secretly, as the hangman inspects the man whom he is to execute the following morning; mentally weighing him, looking at his neck, calculating the drop.
“Travelling is very expensive to-day,” said Mr. Kuvetli again.
At that moment the dinner gong sounded. Banat put his glass down and went out of the room. The Mathis followed. Graham saw that Josette was looking at him curiously. He got to his feet. There was a smell of food coming from the kitchen. The Italian woman and her son came in and sat down at the table. The thought of food made him feel ill.
“You are sure you feel well?” said Josette as they went to the dinner tables. “You do not look it.”
“Quite sure.” He cast about desperately for something else to say and uttered the first words that came into his head: “Madame Mathis is right. The ventilation is not good. Perhaps we could walk on deck after dinner is over.”