There for a moment I paused and considered.
What a contrast to Russian ways, the possibility of getting off by a train with such a hairbreadth of margin.
The contrast was flattering to ourselves.
Soon, however, came another contrast, less flattering. Two drunken men got in. I was feeling particularly tender to everything English, and could not possibly have felt critical or wished to grumble.
But one of the drunken men wanted to fight. He stood up and held on a minute to the window-strap, looked at me vaguely, and exclaimed:
“I pronounce my ultimatio.”
“What is it?” I asked cheerfully.
“Self-defence,” he replied, and then relapsed into his seat with a bump.
So I was home. And all night long the train rushed on to London.
THE END