He was very polite. He escorted them to the Belgian train, found an empty compartment for them, thanked them with empressement, and retired into the darkness which had hatched him.
As the train started Karen said in a low voice: "Would you care to call that officer a barbarian, Kervyn?"
"You haven't seen Louvain. But probably that officer has—through his monocle."
She sighed. "Are we to—differ again? I am so sleepy."
This time he was entirely awake and responsible for his actions. So was she. But she was really very tired, she remembered, when conscience began to make her uncomfortable and call her to account.
But she was too weary to argue the point; her cheek rested unstirring against his shoulder; once or twice her eyes opened vaguely, and her hand crept toward the orchids at her breast. But they had not been crushed. Her white lids closed again. It was unfortunate that she felt no desire to sleep. Her conscience continued to meddle at intervals, too.
But of one thing she was quite certain—she would not have tolerated any such thing very long had she not been very sure that he had immediately gone to sleep.... And she was afraid that if she stirred he might awake.... And perhaps might not be able to go to sleep again.... He needed sleep. She told herself this several times.
"Karen?"
"What?" she said in consternation. And she felt her cheeks growing hot.
"You will let me have those papers, won't you?"