SHOWS MRS. THESIGER IN HER HOME

The Geneva express jerked itself out of the Gare de Lyons.  For a few minutes the lights of outer Paris twinkled past its windows and then with a spring it reached the open night.  The jolts and lurches merged into one regular purposeful throb, the shrieks of the wheels, the clatter of the coaches, into one continuous hum.  And already in the upper berth of her compartment Mrs. Thesiger was asleep.  The noise of a train had no unrest for her.  Indeed, a sleeping compartment in a Continental express was the most permanent home which Mrs. Thesiger had possessed for a good many more years than she would have cared to acknowledge.  She spent her life in hotels with her daughter for an unconsidered companion.  From a winter in Vienna or in Rome she passed to a spring at Venice or at Constantinople, thence to a June in Paris, a July and August at the bathing places, a September at Aix, an autumn in Paris again.  But always she came back to the sleeping-car.  It was the one familiar room which was always ready for her; and though the prospect from its windows changed, it was the one room she knew which had always the same look, the same cramped space, the same furniture—­the one room where, the moment she stepped into it, she was at home.

Yet on this particular journey she woke while it was yet dark.  A noise slight in comparison to the clatter of the train, but distinct in character and quite near, told her at once what had disturbed her.  Some one was moving stealthily in the compartment—­her daughter.  That was all.  But Mrs. Thesiger lay quite still, and, as would happen to her at times, a sudden terror gripped her by the heart.  She heard the girl beneath her, dressing very quietly, subduing the rustle of her garments, even the sound of her breathing.

“How much does she know?” Mrs. Thesiger asked of herself; and her heart sank and she dared not answer.

The rustling ceased.  A sharp click was heard, and the next moment through a broad pane of glass a faint twilight crept into the carriage.  The blind had been raised from one of the windows.  It was two o’clock on a morning of July and the dawn was breaking.  Very swiftly the daylight broadened, and against the window there came into view the profile of a girl’s head and face.  Seen as Mrs. Thesiger saw it, with the light still dim behind it, it was black like an ancient daguerreotype.  It was also as motionless and as grave.

“How much does she know?”

The question would thrust itself into the mother’s thoughts.  She watched her daughter intently from the dark corner where her head lay, thinking that with the broadening of the day she might read the answer in that still face.  But she read nothing even when every feature was revealed in the clear dead light, for the face which she saw was the face of one who lived much apart within itself, building amongst her own dreams as a child builds upon the sand and pays no heed to those who pass.  And to none of her dreams had Mrs. Thesiger the key.  Deliberately her daughter had withdrawn herself amongst them, and they had given her this return for her company.  They had kept her fresh and gentle in a circle where freshness was soon lost and gentleness put aside.