To this they paid not the slightest attention, for several moments.

Frank turned to her interrogators, smiled at them gently and impersonally, and then shook her head impatiently, with an outthrust of the hands which was meant to convey to them that each and every word they uttered was quite incomprehensible to her.
The _capostazione_, who, by this time, had pushed into their compartment, was heatedly demanding either their passports or their tickets.
Frank, who had buried her face raptly in her armful of jonquils, looked up at him with gentle exasperation.
"We are English," she said blankly.

"English! We can't understand!" And she returned to her flowers and her husband once more.
The two uniformed intruders conferred for a moment, while the _conduttore_, on the platform outside, naturally enough expostulated over the delay of the train.
"These fools--these aren't the two!" Frank heard the _capostazione_ declare, in Italian, under his breath, as they swung down on the station platform.

Then the shrill little thin-noted engine-whistle sounded, the wheels began to turn, and they were once more speeding through the white moonlight, deeper and deeper into Italy.
"I wonder," said Frank, after a long silence, "how often we shall be able to do this sort of thing?
I wonder how long luck--mere luck, will be with us ?" "_Is_ it luck ?" asked her husband.

She was still leaning back on his shoulder, with her hand clasping his.