A few moments more walking, with an occasional turn into cross-cuts, brought her into the spacious widening of the ways before the Gare St. Lazare. It was particularly lively inside the depot inclosure, as the boat train for Calais was soon to leave. There was an incessant rattling of carriages piled high with trunks, and a great disgorging of travelers, who ran staggering up the steps weighted with the amazing amount of hand luggage indispensable to the Continental tourist. Certainly it did not look a promising place in which to seek distressed humanity. Celia turned away and began to walk upward toward the street which flanks the building on the left, and winds an ascending course toward Montmartre. It was badly lit, sheltered by the vast blank wall of the depot, and showed only an occasional passer-by, and the lamps of a long line of waiting fiacres. As she advanced into the semi-obscurity of this dark byway, a carriage rattled up and stopped precipitately near the side entrance into the yard. A man sprang out and then turned with a sort of elaboration of gallantry and helped out a woman. Celia idly noted her trim foot as it felt for the step, her darkly clad, elegant figure, then her face. It came with a shock of familiarity on its smooth, rounded prettiness; now, however, no longer placid, but deeply disturbed. Under it unwonted currents of feeling were corrugating the brow and making the lips droop. Only an eye used to note faces would have recognized it as that of the woman who had bought the head of Clytie a few hours before. Celia loitered, and then drew back into the shadow of the wall. The woman was evidently in the grip of mental distress. Apprehension, indecision, terror almost, were stamped on her mobile and childish countenance. The man stretched his hand inside the carriage and pulled out two valises. He spoke to her, shortly but with slightly veiled tenderness, and with a start like a frightened animal she drew back into the shadow. He paid the driver, and then, standing between the bags, he drew out his pocket-book and gave her some murmured instructions. She suddenly interrupted him in a louder key. “I have my ticket,” she said, “I bought it this afternoon. I passed Cook’s, and went in and bought it.” “You bought it yourself?” giving her a fatuously loving look from under his hat-brim, “you were afraid we would perhaps be late? Dear one, how thoughtful!” “I don’t know what I thought. Oh, yes, I do. I thought if I went in to buy it here with you I might see some one I knew. That would be so dreadful.” “Of course, you must not go in with me. You must wait here. Keep back in the shadow there while I’m gone.” “Here--take it--Oh, I’m so nervous! Take it, and get yours, and then come back.”