“Best stick to yesterday,” he advised kindly. “Before 9 a.m. is too early for probability.” He leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “You’re not growing faint under the strain, I hope?” inquired Darcy, recovering her spirits. “It isn’t that,” he replied dreamily. “I am only thinking that things like this do _not_ happen to people. I shall count three, and if you’re still there I shall know—well, I shall know that my mind is failing—and be glad of it.” Darcy began rather to like her accomplice. He was really quite nice—though old. “Count ten,” she advised. “It’s a better test.” He began to count slowly, and an elderly lady who came down the aisle to take the chair opposite hastily sought the porter with a view to having her seat changed. When he had declaimed “Ten” and opened his eyes, the quite startling exclamation which followed convinced the old lady that her caution was well judged. The enumerator had found himself facing emptiness. “Turn around,” directed a soft voice behind him. He pivoted. “Oh!” he exclaimed in the most flattering tones of relief. “The door of Drawing-Room B was getting nervous,” she said. “So I changed. I don’t want them to catch my eye. They might come out to speak to us.” “Come one, come all,” declaimed the other; “this chair shall fly from its firm base as soon as I.” “Fine poetry,” granted the girl. “But this is prose.” “Nothing of the sort, if you’ll pardon me. Impossible and glorious romance. Words by Lewis Carroll. Music by Lohengrin. Mr. Brit-ling is for seeing it through.” “Mr. Britling—if you’re sure that Mr. H. G. Wells would be willing to lend you the name—” “I’ll chance it.” “Then Mr. Britling doesn’t know his part yet and might get poor me into awful difficulties. No, we must get out of this car.” “Stamford the next stop,” said the porter, who had overheard in passing. “Can you put us into another car?” Darcy asked him. “Farther away from the restaurant car,” added her companion, and she thanked him with a glance for his shrewdness. If they were between the “Chorea” and the diner, her friends would pass them at luncheon-time. “Dey’s a obsehvation cah, reah cah,” suggested the porter. “No extra chahge.” Darcy immediately rewarded him with a dollar. “If any one inquires about us,” she said, “tell them that we got off at New Haven.” “Yassum. What name please, maddum?” “No name. The lady and gentleman in 14 and 16.” Fortune had left vacant for their coming a semi-retired alcove in the observation car. Therein ensconced, they took breath and thought and stock of each other. “Now, if you don’t mind,” said the man. “Who am I?” “Your name is Veyze,” answered the girl, dimpling. “You’re English. You’re awfully English! You’re as English as—as yourself.” “Happy coincidence! Mayn’t I have more than one name?” “A full allowance. Sir Montrose Veyze, of Veyze Holdings, Hampshire.” “I say! Then I’ve come into the title.”