The Gare de l'Est was thronged with people when Brock appeared, fully half an hour before departing time. In no little dismay, he found himself wondering if the whole of Paris was going away or, on the other hand, if the rest of the continent was arriving. He felt a fool in Medcroft's unspeakable checked suit; and the eyeglass was a much more obstinate, untractable thing than he had even suspected it could be. The right side of his face was in a condition of semi-paralysis due to the muscular exactions required; he had a sickening fear that the scowl that marked his brow was destined to form a perpetual alliance with the smirk at the corner of his nose, forever destroying the symmetry of his face. If one who has not the proper facial construction will but attempt the feat of holding a monocle in place for unbroken hours, he may come to appreciate at least one of the trials which beset poor Brock. Every one seemed to be staring at him. He heard more than one American in the scurrying throng say to another, "English," and he felt relieved until an Englishman or two upset his confidence by brutally alluding to him as a "confounded American toady." It was quite train time before Mrs. Medcroft was seen hurrying in from the carriage way, pursued by a trio of _facteurs_, laden with bags and boxes. "Don't shake hands," she warned in a quick whisper, as they came together. "I recognised you by the clothes." "Thank God, it wasn't my face!" he cried. "Are your trunks checked?" "Yes,--this afternoon. I have nothing but the bags. You have the tickets? Then let us get aboard. I just couldn't get here earlier," she whispered guiltily. "We had to say good-by, you know. Poor old Roxy! How he hated it! I sent Burton and O'Brien on ahead of me. My sister brought them here in her carriage, and I daresay they're aboard and abed by this time. You didn't see them? But of course you wouldn't know my maids. How stupid of me! Don't be alarmed. They have their instructions, Roxbury. Doesn't it sound odd to you?" Brock was icy-cold with apprehension as they walked down the line of _wagon-lits_ in the wake of the bag-bearers. Mrs. Medcroft was as self-possessed and as _degage_ as he was ill at ease and awkward. As they ascended the steps of the carriage, she turned back to him and said, with the most malicious twinkle in her eyes,-- "I'm not a bit nervous." "But you've been married so much longer than I have," he responded. Then came the disposition of the bags and parcels. She calmly directed the porters to put the overflow into the upper berth. The _garde_ came up to remonstrate in his most rapid French. "But where is M'sieur to sleep if the bags go up there?" he argued. Mrs. Medcroft dropped her toilet bag and turned to Brock with startled eyes, her lips parted. He was standing in the passage, his two bags at his feet, an aroused gleam in his eyes. A deep flush overspread her face; an expression of utter rout succeeded the buoyancy of the moment before.