indignantly, for now I was outraged beyond
endurance—"I'll tell you, sir, what I am, and
what I feel myself—one singularly unlucky in a
travelling companion."

"Bet you a five-pound note you're not," broke
he in. " Give you six to five on it, in anything
you like."

"It would be a wager almost impossible to
decide, sir."

"Nothing of the kind. Let us leave it to
the first pretty woman we see at the station, the
guard of the train, the fellow in the pay-office,
the stoker, if you like."

"I must own, sir, that you express a very
confident, opinion of your case."

"Will you bet?"'

"No, sir, certainly not."

"Well, then, shut up, and say no more about
it. If a man won't back his opinion, the less
he says the better."

I lay back in my place at this, determined that
no provocation should induce me to exchange
another word with him. Apparently, he had
not made a like resolve, for he went on: " It's
all bosh about appearances being deceptive, and
so forth. They say 'not all gold that glitters;'
my notion is, that with a fellow who really
knows life, no disguise that was ever invented
will be successful: the way a man wears his
hair"—here he looked at mine—"the sort of
gloves he has, if there be anything peculiar in
his waistcoat, and, above all, his boots. I don't
believe the devil was ever more revealed in his
hoof than a snob by his shoes." A most
condemnatory glance at my extremities
accompanied this speech.

"Must I endure this sort of persecution all
the way to Dover?" was the question I asked of
my misery.

"Look out, you're on fire!" said he, with a
dry laugh. And, sure enough, a spark from
his cigarette had fallen on my trousers, and
burned a round hole in them.

"Really, sir," cried I, in passionate warmth,
"your conduct becomes intolerable."

"Well, if I knew you preferred being singed,
I'd have said nothing about it. What's this
station here? Where's your Bradshaw?"

"I have got no Bradshaw, sir," said I, with
dignity.

"No Bradshaw! A bagman without Bradshaw!
Oh, I forgot, you ain't a bagman. Why
are we stopping here? something smashed, I
suspect. Eh! what! isn't that she? Yes,
it is! Open the door!—let me out, I say!
Confound the lock!—let me out!" While he
uttered these words, in an accent of the wildest
impatience, I had but time to see a lady, in
deep mourning, pass on to a carnage in front,
just as, with a preliminary snort, the train shook,
then backed, and at last set out on its thundering
course again. " Such a stunning fine girl!"
said he, as he lighted a fresh cigar; " saw her
just as we started, and thought I'd run her to
earth in this carriage. Precious mistake I
made, eh, wasn't it? All in black—deep black
—and quite alone!"

I had to turn towards the window, not to let
him perceive how his words agitated me, for I
felt certain it was Miss Herbert he was describing,
and I felt a sort of revulsion to think of the
poor girl being subjected to the impertinence of
this intolerable puppy.

"Too much style about her for a governess;
and yet, somehow, she wasn't, so to say—you
know what I mean—she wasn't altogether that;
looked frightened, and people of real class
never look frightened."

The daughter of a clergyman, probably," said
I, with a tone of such reproof as I hoped
must check all levity.

"Or a flash maid! some of them, now-a-days,
are wonderful swells; they've got an art of
dressing and making-up that is really
surprising."

"I have no experience of the order, sir," said
I, gravely.

"Well, so I should say. Your beat is in the
haberdashery or hosiery line, eh?"

"Has it not yet occurred to you, sir," asked I,
sternly, " that an acquaintanceship brief as ours
should exclude personalities, not to say—not to
say—-" I wanted to add "impertinences,"
but his grey eyes were turned full on me with
an expression so peculiar, that I faltered, and
could not get the word out.

"Well, go on—out with it: not to say what?"
said he, calmly.

I turned my shoulder towards him, and nestled
down into my place.

"There's a thing, now," said he, in a tone of
the coolest reflection—"there's a thing, now, that
I never could understand, and I have never met
the man to explain it. Our nation, as a nation,
is just as plucky as the French—no one disputes
it; and yet, take a Frenchman of your class—
the commis-voyageur, or anything that way—
and you'll just find him as prompt on the point
of honour as the best noble in the land. He
never utters an insolent speech without being
ready to back it."

I felt as if I were choking, but I never uttered
a word.

"I remember meeting one of those fellows
—traveller for some house in the wine trade—
at Avignon. It was at table d'hôte, and I said
something slighting about Communism, and he
replied, ' Monsieur, je suis Fouriériste, aud you
insult me.' Thereupon he sent me his card by
the waiter—'Paul Deloge, for the house of
Gougon, père et fils.' I tore it, and threw it
away, saying, ' I never drink Bordeaux wines.'
'What do you say to a glass of Hermitage,
then?' said he, and flung the contents of his
own in my face. Wasn't that very ready: I
call it as neat a thing as could be."

"And you bore that outrage," said I, in
triumphant delight; " you submitted to a
flagrant insult like that at a public table?"

"I don't know what you call 'bearing it,'
said he; " the thing was done, and I had only
to wipe my face with my napkin."

"Nothing more?" said I, sneeringly.

"We went out, afterwards, if you mean that,"