Roxbury tried yesterday for a lower for himself."
"And he--couldn't get one?"
"No, Mr. Brock. But I'll ask the maids to give up their--"
"Please, please don't worry--and please don't call me Mr. Brock. I hate
the name. Good night! Now don't think about me. I'll be all right.
You'll find me as gay as a lark in the morning."
He did not give her a chance for further protest, but darted out of the
compartment. As he closed the door he had the disquieting impression
that she was sitting upon the edge of her berth, giggling hysterically.
The _garde_ listened to his demand for a separate compartment with the
dejection of a capable French attendant who is ever ready with joint
commiseration and obduracy. No, he was compelled to inform Monsieur the
American (to the dismay of the pseudo-Englishman) it would be impossible
to arrange for another compartment. The train was crowded to its
capacity. Many had been turned away. No, a louis would not be of avail.
The deepest grief and anguish filled his soul to see the predicament of
Monsieur, but there was no relief.
Brock's miserable affectation of the English drawl soon gave way to
sharp, emphatic Americanisms. It was after eight o'clock and the train
was well under way. The street lamps were getting fewer and fewer, and
the soft, fresh air of the suburbs was rushing through the window.
"But, hang it all, I _can't_ sit up all night!" growled Brock in
exasperated finality.
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