For one moment he seemed to sway between two impulses, then, with a new determination, he looked straight at his questioner with his clear eyes.
"No," he said, speaking slowly and with a grave deliberation, "I do not need a porter.

I have no luggage--but this." He rose, as if to prove the truth of his declaration, and lifted his valise from the rack.
It was a simple movement, simple as the question and answer that had preceded it, but it held interest for Blake.

He could not have analyzed the impression, but something in the boy's air touched him, something in the young figure so plainly clad, so aloof, stood out with sharp appeal in the grayness and unreality of the dawn.

A feeling that was neither curiosity nor pity, and yet savored of both, urged him to further speech.

As his two companions, anxious to be free of the train, passed out into the corridor, he glanced once more at the slight figure, at the high Russian boots, the long overcoat, the fur cap drawn down over the dark hair.
"Look here! you aren't alone in Paris ?" he asked in the easy, impersonal way that spoke his nationality.