What continually impressed Sophia as strange, in the behaviour not only of Gerald but of Chirac and other people with whom she came into contact, was its quality of casualness.  She had all her life been accustomed to see enterprises, even minor ones, well pondered and then carefully schemed beforehand.  In St. Luke’s Square there was always, in every head, a sort of time-table of existence prepared at least one week in advance.  But in Gerald’s world nothing was prearranged.  Elaborate affairs were decided in a moment and undertaken with extraordinary lightness.  Thus the excursion to Auxerre!  During lunch scarcely a word was said as to it; the conversation, in English for Sophia’s advantage, turning, as usual under such circumstances, upon the difficulty of languages and the differences between countries.  Nobody would have guessed that any member of the party had any preoccupation whatever for the rest of the day.  The meal was delightful to Sophia; not merely did she find Chirac comfortingly kind and sincere, but Gerald was restored to the perfection of his charm and his good humour.  Then suddenly, in the midst of coffee, the question of trains loomed up like a swift crisis.  In five minutes Chirac had departed—­whether to his office or his home Sophia did not understand, and within a quarter of an hour she and Gerald were driving rapidly to the Gare de Lyon, Gerald stuffing into his pocket a large envelope full of papers which he had received by registered post.  They caught the train by about a minute, and Chirac by a few seconds.  Yet neither he nor Gerald seemed to envisage the risk of inconvenience and annoyance which they had incurred and escaped.  Chirac chattered through the window with another journalist in the next compartment.  When she had leisure to examine him, Sophia saw that he must have called at his home to put on old clothes.  Everybody except herself and Gerald seemed to travel in his oldest clothes.

The train was hot, noisy, and dusty.  But, one after another, all three of them fell asleep and slept heavily, calmly, like healthy and exhausted young animals.  Nothing could disturb them for more than a moment.  To Sophia it appeared to be by simple chance that Chirac aroused himself and them at Laroche and sleepily seized her valise and got them all out on the platform, where they yawned and smiled, full of the deep, half-realized satisfaction of repose.  They drank nectar from a wheeled buffet, drank it eagerly, in thirsty gulps, and sighed with pleasure and relief, and Gerald threw down a coin, refusing change with a lord’s gesture.  The local train to Auxerre was full, and with a varied and sinister cargo.  At length they were in the zone of the waiting guillotine.  The rumour ran that the executioner was on the train.  No one had seen him; no one was sure of recognizing him, but everyone hugged the belief that he was on the train.  Although the sun was sinking the heat seemed not to abate.  Attitudes grew more limp,