Between the two great branches of the Anglo-Saxon race there is one notable difference. The Englishman prefers to travel in solitude and silence. His ideal journey is one from London to Constantinople in a compartment that is not invaded except by the ticket collector; and if it is humanly possible that he can reach his destination without having given utterance to anything more sensational than an agreement with some other passenger’s comment on the weather, he is indeed a happy man. The American loves company; he has the acquisitiveness of the Latin, combined with the rhetorical virtues of the Teuton. Solitude makes him miserable; silence irritates him. He wants to talk about large and important things, such as the future of the country, the prospects of agriculture and the fluctuations of trade, about which the average Englishman knows nothing, and is less interested. The American has a town pride, can talk almost emotionally about a new drainage system and grow eloquent upon a municipal balance sheet. The Englishman does not cultivate his town pride until he reaches middle age, and then only in sufficient quantities to feel disappointed with the place of his birth after he has renewed its acquaintance. Mr. Washington found himself in an empty compartment, and, grunting his dissatisfaction, walked along the corridor, peeping into one cell after another in the hope of discovering a fellow-countryman in a similar unhappy plight. His search was fruitless and he returned to the carriage in which his bag and overcoat were deposited, and settled down to the study of an English humorous newspaper and a vain search for something at which any intelligent man could laugh. The doors of the coach were at either end, and most passengers entering had to pass the open entrance of Mr. Washington’s compartment. At every click of the door he looked up, hoping to find a congenial soul. But disappointment awaited him, until a lady hesitated by the door. It was a smoking carriage, but Washington, who was a man of gallant character, would gladly have sacrificed his cigar for the pleasure of her society. Young, he guessed, and a widow. She was in black, an attractive face showed through a heavy veil. “Is this compartment engaged?” she asked in a low voice that was almost a whisper. “No, madam.” Washington rose, hat in hand. “Would you mind?” she asked in a soft voice. “Why, surely! Sit down, ma’am,” said the gallant American. “Would you like the corner seat by the window?” She shook her head, and sat down near the door, turning her face from him. “Do you mind my smoking?” asked Washington, after a while. “Please smoke,” she said, and again turned her face away. “English,” thought Mr. Washington in disgust, and hunched himself for an hour and a half of unrelieved silence. A whistle blew, the train moved slowly from the platform, and Elijah Washington’s adventurous journey had begun.