She laughed at him. He had been so afraid of her possible refusal, that his question had been positively tremulous.
“I suppose so,” she said slowly. “Is the train quite full, then?”
He looked at her quite keenly. She was laughing at him with her eyes—an odd little trick of hers. He was himself again at once, and answered mendaciously, but with emphasis—
“Not a seat anywhere. I shall be left behind if you don’t take me in.”
A word in the guard’s ear was quite sufficient, but the maid looked at Wolfenden suspiciously. She leaned into the carriage.
“Would mademoiselle prefer that I, too, travelled with her?” she inquired in French.
The girl answered her in the same language.
“Certainly not, Céleste. You had better go and take your seat at once. We are just going!”
The maid reluctantly withdrew, with disapproval very plainly stamped upon her dark face. Wolfenden and his belongings were bundled in, and the whistle blew. The train moved slowly out of the station. They were off!
“I believe,” she said, looking with a smile at the pile of magazines and papers littered all over the seat, “that you are an impostor. Or perhaps you have a peculiar taste in literature!”