To add to his misery, Mrs. Whitcomb came from the Women's Room, and as she passed him, she prodded him with one sharp elbow and twisted the corner of her heel into his little toe. He thrust his head out with his fiercest, "How dare you!" But Mrs. Whitcomb was fresh from a prolonged encounter with Mrs. Wellington, and she flung back a venomous glare that sent the Englishman to cover. The porter reveled in his victory till he had to dash out to the vestibule to give vent to hilarious yelps of laughter. When he had regained composure, he came back to Mallory, and bent over him to say: "Yo' berth is empty, sah. Shall I make it up?" Mallory nodded, and turned to Marjorie, with a sad, "Good night, darling." The porter rolled his eyes again, and turned away, only to be recalled by Marjorie's voice: "Porter, take this old handbag out of here." The porter thought of the vanquished Lathrop, exiled to the smoking room, and he answered: "That belongs to the gemman what owns this berth." "Put it in number one," Marjorie commanded, with a queenly gesture. The porter obeyed meekly, wondering what would happen next. He had no sooner deposited Lathrop's valise among the incongruous white ribbons, than Marjorie recalled him to say: "And, Porter, you may bring me my own baggage." "Yo' what--missus?" "Our handbags, idiot," Mallory explained, peevishly. "I ain't seen no handbags of you-alls," the porter protested. "You-all didn't have no handbags when you got on this cah." Mallory jumped as if he had been shot. "Good Lord, I remember! We left 'em in the taxicab!" The porter cast his hands up, and walked away from the tragedy. Marjorie stared at Mallory in horror. "We had so little time to catch the train," Mallory stammered. Marjorie leaped to her feet: "I'm going up in the baggage car." "For the dog?" "For my trunk." And now Mallory annihilated her completely, for he gasped: "Our trunks went on the train ahead!" Marjorie fell back for one moment, then bounded to her feet with shrill commands: "Porter! Porter! I want you to stop this train this minute!" The porter called back from the depths of a berth: "This train don't stop till to-morrow noon." Marjorie had strength enough for only one vain protest: "Do you mean to say that I've got to go to San Francisco in this waist--a waist that has seen a whole day in Chicago?" The best consolation Mallory could offer was companionship in misery. He pushed forward one not too immaculate cuff. "Well, this is the only linen I have." "Don't speak to me," snapped Marjorie, beating her heels against the floor. "But, my darling!" "Go away and leave me. I hate you!" Mallory rose up, and stumbling down the aisle, plounced into berth number three, an allegory of despair.