The _garde_ came
up to remonstrate in his most rapid French.
"But where is M'sieur to sleep if the bags go up there?" he argued.
Mrs. Medcroft dropped her toilet bag and turned to Brock with startled
eyes, her lips parted. He was standing in the passage, his two bags at
his feet, an aroused gleam in his eyes. A deep flush overspread her
face; an expression of utter rout succeeded the buoyancy of the moment
before.
"Really," she murmured and could go no farther. The loveliest pucker
came into her face. Brock waved the _garde_ aside.
"It's all right," he explained. "I shan't occupy the--I mean, I'll take
one of the other compartments." As the _garde_ opened his lips to
protest, she drew Brock inside the compartment and closed the door. Mrs.
Medcroft was agitated.
"Oh, what a wretched _contretemps_!" she cried in despair. "Roxy has
made a frightful mess of it, after all. He has _not_ taken a compartment
for you. I'm--I'm afraid you'll have to take this one and--and let me go
in with--"
"Nonsense!" he broke in. "Nothing of the sort! I'll find a bed, never
fear. I daresay there's plenty of room on the train. You shan't sleep
with the servants. And don't lie awake blaming poor old Rox. He's
lonesome and unhappy, and he--"
"But he has a place to sleep," she lamented. "I'm so sorry, Mr. Brock.
It's perfectly horrid, and I'm--I'm dreadfully afraid you won't be able
to get a berth.
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