"Very probably—oh, yes—rather—quite." The words were decorously languid.
"Thirty people a day," went on Craighouse rapidly; "say a thousand a month. In a year that would mean, roughly—oh, put it at ten thousand. Am I right?"
The Englishman shifted uneasily. "Very probably—oh yes—rather—quite."
"The war has been going on for three years." The American was warming to his subject. "Three years mean that approximately thirty thousand passengers have traveled in this compartment since the beginning of the war, eh?"
His companion reached for his cigarettes. "Very probably," he said. "Oh yes—rath——"
"How many of these carriages are in use?" interrupted Craighouse. "Two hundred, four hundred—say three hundred?"
"Very probably—oh yes——"
"I may be short or long on that estimate, but putting it at three hundred, this line has had about—well, roughly, nine million first-class passengers. Is that correct?"
"Very pro——"
"Then, great Scott! look at the advertisement behind you, the most prominent one in the compartment. This line has had a chance to have a heart-to-heart talk with nine million average, well-to-do passengers. From the standpoint of propaganda, figure out the national importance of that. From the commercial point of view, estimate the value of that space. And yet, after three years of war, it says that the steamship line from Newhaven to Dieppe is the shortest route to Austria, south Germany, and Spain! And it gives a map! Austria, south Germany, and Spain!——" The American's tirade ended in a splutter of indignation.