The lean face, with its humorous mouth, regarded Peter and took him all in: his vast expanse of collar, the wide black edging to his shoulder-straps, his brand-new badges, his black buttons and stars.

Then he lied remorselessly: "Sorry, padre; we're full up." Peter backed out and forgot to close the door, for at that moment a shrill whistle was excruciatingly blown.

He found himself in the very cab of the Pullman with the glass door before him, through which could be seen a sudden bustle.

Subalterns hastened forward from the more or less secluded spots that they had found, with a vision of skirts and hats behind them; an inspector passed aggressively along; and--thanks to those high gods--Peter observed the hurrying hotel porter at that moment.

In sixty seconds the door had been jerked open; a gladstone, a suit-case, and a kit-bag shot at him; largesse had changed hands; the door had shut again; the train had groaned and started; and Peter was off to France.
It was with mixed feelings that he groped for his luggage.