Gilbert spoke French as it is spoken in Tours, quite perfectly. The Italian spoke it with the soft, ungrammatical fluency of his race.
The interlude pleased the tired, jaded minds of the sad companions, and it was with some fictitious reconstruction of past gaiety and animation that they drove to St. Pancras.
The train was in.
Gilbert's dressing-case was already placed in a first-class compartment, his portmanteau snug in the van.
When he walked up the long platform with Rita, a porter, the Guard of the train and the steward of the dining-car, were grouped round the open door.
He was well known. All the servants of the line looked out for him and gave him almost ministerial honours. They knew he was a "somebody," but were all rather vague as to the nature of his distinction.
He was "Mr. Gilbert Lothian" at least, and his bountiful largesse was generally spoken of.
The train was not due to start for six minutes. The acute guard, raising his cap, locked the door of the carriage.
Gilbert and Rita were alone in it for a farewell.
He took her in his arms and looked long and earnestly into the young lovely face.