“A remark,” protested Mr. Chiswell, “so unkind that I can tell it comes from nobody but Miss Everitt.” She lifted her bag to the rack, and when she had succeeded in placing it there, he made a gesture of assistance. Glancing at herself in the mirror below the rack, she remarked that she looked a perfect bird frightener.
“I don’t agree with you,” he said.
“So far as I remember,” she said, “you seldom did.”
“We won’t exaggerate,” urged Mr. Chiswell. “For my part, I’m very glad that we’re to be fellow travellers, and I trust we shall have a pleasant journey. It’s clear enough to me, Miss Everitt, that fate has brought us together again.”
“Then I wish to goodness fate would mind its own business.”
The last passenger came into the saloon; the conductor’s forehead cleared of wrinkles, and he hung up his brown peaked cap with a sigh of relief. The train moved out from the Gare de Lyon in a casual way, as though it were going for a short stroll, and giving no indication that it intended to occupy the day by racing down the map of France. Folk on the low platform of the station waved handkerchiefs, blew kisses, cried.
“Is Freddy with you?” asked Miss Everitt.
“Need you ask! Is Emily with you?”
“Course she is.”
“Neither of ’em married?”