"Really," she murmured and could go no farther. The loveliest pucker came into her face. Brock waved the _garde_ aside. "It's all right," he explained. "I shan't occupy the--I mean, I'll take one of the other compartments." As the _garde_ opened his lips to protest, she drew Brock inside the compartment and closed the door. Mrs. Medcroft was agitated. "Oh, what a wretched _contretemps_!" she cried in despair. "Roxy has made a frightful mess of it, after all. He has _not_ taken a compartment for you. I'm--I'm afraid you'll have to take this one and--and let me go in with--" "Nonsense!" he broke in. "Nothing of the sort! I'll find a bed, never fear. I daresay there's plenty of room on the train. You shan't sleep with the servants. And don't lie awake blaming poor old Rox. He's lonesome and unhappy, and he--" "But he has a place to sleep," she lamented. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Brock. It's perfectly horrid, and I'm--I'm dreadfully afraid you won't be able to get a berth. Roxbury tried yesterday for a lower for himself." "And he--couldn't get one?" "No, Mr. Brock. But I'll ask the maids to give up their--" "Please, please don't worry--and please don't call me Mr. Brock. I hate the name. Good night! Now don't think about me. I'll be all right. You'll find me as gay as a lark in the morning." He did not give her a chance for further protest, but darted out of the compartment. As he closed the door he had the disquieting impression that she was sitting upon the edge of her berth, giggling hysterically. The _garde_ listened to his demand for a separate compartment with the dejection of a capable French attendant who is ever ready with joint commiseration and obduracy. No, he was compelled to inform Monsieur the American (to the dismay of the pseudo-Englishman) it would be impossible to arrange for another compartment. The train was crowded to its capacity. Many had been turned away. No, a louis would not be of avail. The deepest grief and anguish filled his soul to see the predicament of Monsieur, but there was no relief. Brock's miserable affectation of the English drawl soon gave way to sharp, emphatic Americanisms. It was after eight o'clock and the train was well under way. The street lamps were getting fewer and fewer, and the soft, fresh air of the suburbs was rushing through the window. "But, hang it all, I _can't_ sit up all night!" growled Brock in exasperated finality. "Monsieur forgets that he has a berth. It is not the fault of the _compagnie_ that he is without a bed. Did not M'sieur book the compartment himself? _Tres bien!_"