"Is your daughter not well?" the deep voice spoke across the car.
As Elsie could not ride backward, her mother, to give her room, and for the pleasure of watching her, was seated with her own back to the engine, facing most of the ladies in the car.
"She is a little train-sick; she could not eat this morning, and that always gives her a headache."
Elsie raised her eyelashes in faint dissent.
"She should eat something, surely. Have you tried malted milk? I have some of the lozenges; she can take one without raising her head."
Search was made in a distinguished-looking bag, Mrs. Valentin protesting against the trouble, and beseeching Elsie with her eyes to accept one from the little silver box of pastils that was passed across the aisle.
Elsie said she really could not—thanks very much.
The keen, dark eyes surveyed her with the look of a general inspecting raw troops, and Mrs. Valentin felt as depressed as the company officer who has been "working up" the troops. "Won't you try one, Elsie?" she pleaded.
"I'd rather not, mother," said Elsie.
She did not repeat her thanks to the great authority, but left her mother to cover her retreat.