An hour later Trevor was in the Paris express, and for thirty hours he prayed one petition, that she might live till he arrived. He used to have a berth in the Wagon Lit as a matter of course, and had begun to complain about the champagne in the dining-car, but the thought of comfort made him wince on this journey, and he twice changed his carriage, once when an English party would not cease from badinage that mocked his ears, and again because a woman had brown eyes with her expression of dog-like faithfulness. The darkness of the night after that sunlit garden, and the monotonous roar of the train, and the face of smiling France covered with snow, and the yeasty waters of the Channel, and the moaning of the wind, filled his heart with dread. Will that procession of luggage at Dover never come to an end? A French seaman--a fellow with earrings and a merry face--appears and reappears with maddening regularity, each time with a larger trunk. One had X. Y. on it in big white letters. Why not Z. also? Who could have such a name? That is a lady's box, black and brown, plastered with hotel labels. Some bride, perhaps... they are carrying the luggage over his heart. Have they no mercy? The last piece is in, and the sailors make a merry group at the top of the gangway. They look like Bretons, and that fellow is laughing again--some story about a little child; he can just hear _Ma petite._... “Guard, is this train never to start? We're half-an-hour late already.” “Italian mail very heavy, sir; still bringing up bags; so many people at Riviera in winter, writing home to their friends.”... How cruel every one is! He had not written for ten days. Something always happened, an engagement of pleasure. There was a half-finished letter; he had left it to join a Monte Carlo party. “Writing letters--home, of course, to that idolised wife. It's beautiful, and you are an example to us all; but Mrs. Trevor will excuse descriptions of scenery; she knows you are enjoying yourself.” Had she been expecting that letter from post to post, calculating the hour of each delivery, identifying the postman's feet in that quiet street, holding her breath when he rang, stretching her hand for a letter, to let it drop unopened, and bury her face in the pillow? Had she died waiting for a letter that never came? Those letters that he wrote from the Northern Circuit in that first sweet year, a letter a day, and one day two--it had given him a day's advantage over her. Careful letters, too, though written between cases, with bits of description and amusing scenes.