“But he has a place to sleep,” she lamented.  “I’m so sorry, Mr. Brock.  It’s perfectly horrid, and I’m—­I’m dreadfully afraid you won’t be able to get a berth.  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.

“Monsieur forgets that he has a berth.  It is not the fault of the compagnie that he is without a bed.  Did not M’sieur book the compartment himself? Tres bien!”

As the result of strong persuasion, the garde consented to make “the grand tour” of the train de luxe in search of a berth.  It goes without saying that he was intensely mystified by Brock’s incautious remark that he would be satisfied with “an upper if he couldn’t do any better.”  For the life of him, Monsieur the garde could not comprehend the situation.  He went away, shaking his head and looking at the tickets, as much as to say that an American is never satisfied—­not even with the best.

Brock lowered a window-seat in the passage and sat down, staring blankly and blackly out into the whizzing night.  The predicament had come upon him so suddenly that he had not until now found the opportunity to analyse it in its entirety.  The worst that could come of it, of course, was the poor comfort of a night in a chair.  He knew that it was a train of sleeping-coaches—­Ah!  He suddenly remembered the luggage van!  As a last resort, he might find lodging among the trunks!

And then, too, there was something irritating in the suspicion that she had laughed as if it were a huge joke—­perhaps, even now, she was doubled up in her narrow couch, stifling the giggle that would not be suppressed.