"Oh no!" Audrey protested. "Even if he had fallen overboard he'd have been seen and the captain would have stopped the boat." "Where do you come from?" Lady Southminster retorted with disdain. "That's an _omen_, that is"--pointing to the words on the cover of the magazine. "What else could it be? I ask you." When Miss Ingate returned the child was fast asleep. Miss Ingate was paler than usual. Having convinced herself that the sleeper did genuinely sleep, she breathed to Audrey: "He's in the next compartment! ... He must have hidden himself till nearly the last minute on the boat and then got into the train while we were sending off that telegram." Audrey blenched. "Shall you wake her?" "Wake her, and have a scene--with us here? No, I shan't. He's a fool." "How d'you know?" asked Audrey. "Well, he must have been a fool to marry her." "Well," whispered Audrey. "If I'd been a man I'd have married that face like a shot." "It might be all right if he'd only married the face. But he's married what she calls her mind." "Is he young?" "Yes. And as good-looking in his own way as she is." "Well--" But the Countess of Southminster stirred, and the slight movement stopped conversation. The journey was endless, but it was no longer than the sleep of the Countess. At length dusk and mist began to gather in the hollows of the land; stations succeeded one another more frequently. The reflections of the electric lights in the compartment could be seen beyond the glass of the windows. The train still ruthlessly clattered and shook and swayed and thundered; and weary lords, ladies and financiers had read all the illustrated magazines and six-penny novels in existence, and they lolled exhausted and bored amid the debris of literature and light refreshments. Then the speed of the convoy slackened, and Audrey, looking forth, saw a pale cathedral dome resting aloft amid dark clouds. It was a magical glimpse, and it was the first glimpse of Paris. "Oh!" cried Audrey, far more like a girl than a widow. The train rattled through defiles of high twinkling houses, roared under bridges, screeched, threaded forests of cold blue lamps, and at last came to rest under a black echoing vault. Paris! And, mysteriously, all Audrey's illusions concerning France had been born again. She was convinced that Paris could not fail to be paradisiacal. Lady Southminster awoke.