We arrived on time at Holyhead and I found the stateroom on the train for which I had wired. Clad in that famous pair of Irish pajamas, before the train hauled out of the station I was dead to the world. It must have been just about one o’clock A.M. I knew nothing until quarter to seven, when the attendant told me that we would arrive at Euston in 15 minutes. He brought in a dish of tea and some bread and butter. Ye gods, didn’t that taste good! I had had no food for twelve hours. I asked him for a repeat order. Then I went back in the train and found the K----’s, and they were quite refreshed and told me not to bother with them longer, as they could manage to get in a taxi as soon as they were dressed. They were going to her parents, who live in London. I left them for a moment saying that I would return and stepped out on the platform. Euston Station at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning is generally not a lively place, and I didn’t think that there would be anyone there, or at least not more than a few people to meet friends. I hadn’t stepped a foot from the door of the coach when I was almost mobbed by a bunch of reporters. Talk of _it_. Good heavens, I wanted quiet; I didn’t want to be interviewed. I stood perfectly still and never said a word; they must have thought I was tongue-tied. Then a poor old woman pushed her way through and asked me, with tears in her eyes, if I had seen “Johnny Keene.” How could I answer her? From her appearance I judge he must have been a stoker or in the third cabin. I told her as gently as I could that I hadn’t seen him, but many others were coming through in the second and third sections and he might be among them. When the reporters found they couldn’t get anything out of me they cleared out, and I was surrounded by friends and relatives of the passengers, who asked me a dozen questions, but I couldn’t give any cheerful answers. My nerve wasn’t any too good for this ordeal, and I was fast breaking down when a young man pushed through and asked me if I was an American. When I told him “Yes” he said that he was secretary to Ambassador Page, and was there anything he could do for me. I almost fell on his neck with joy, and he took me down to where the Ambassador was standing and introduced me to him. It was a pleasure to hear Ambassador Page say, “What, not the son of _the_ Mr. Lauriat of Boston”! So you see, my father, your name is not without honour in your own city. The Ambassador’s sympathy was warmly expressed, and he was putting me into the Embassy motor car--for I didn’t care where I went as long as I got away from that station platform--when I saw Mr. Walford coming down the platform. I excused myself and stopped him.