Ghastly to be ill on a journey. And she’s not a spectacle. Why can’t they pull down the blind?”

“It would be dull for them.”

“Poor devil. I suppose it’s a man?”

Iris was so foolishly anxious to break the parallel between the motionless figure and herself, that she was disappointed when her companion shook her head.

“No, a woman. They got in at our station, higher up. The doctor was telling the baroness about it. She’s just been terribly injured in a motor smash, and there’s risk of serious brain injury. So the doctor’s rushing her to Trieste, for a tricky operation. It’s a desperate chance to save her reason and her life.”

“Is that man with the black beard a doctor?” asked Iris.

“Yes. Very clever, too.”

“Is he? I’d rather have a vet.”

The tweed lady, who was leading, did not hear her muttered protest. They had to force their way through the blocked corridors, and had covered about half the distance, when the spinster collided with a tall dark lady in grey, who was standing at the door of a crowded carriage.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” she apologised. “I was just looking out to see if our tea was coming. I gave the order to an attendant.”

Iris recognised Mrs. Barnes’ voice, and shrank back, for she was not anxious to meet the vicar and his wife.

But her companion gave a cry of delight.

“Oh, you’re English, too,” she said. “This is my lucky day.”

As Mrs. Barnes’ soft brown eyes seemed to invite confidence, she added, “I’ve been in exile for a year.”

“Are you on your way home?” asked Mrs. Barnes, with ready sympathy.

“Yes, but I can’t believe it. It’s far too good to be true. Shall I send a waiter with your tea?”

“That would be really kind. My husband is such a wretched traveller. Like so many big strong men.”

Iris listened impatiently, for her temples were beginning to throb savagely. Now that Mrs. Barnes had managed to introduce her husband’s name into the conversation, she knew that her own tea might be held up indefinitely.

“Aren’t we blocking the way?” she asked.

Mrs. Barnes recognised her with rather a forced smile, for the Gabriel episode still rankled.

“Surprised to see us?” she asked. “We decided, after all, not to wait for the last through train. And our friends—the Miss Flood-Porters, came with us. In fact, we’re a full muster, for the honeymooners are here, too.”

Iris had struggled a little farther down the surging corridor, when the tweed lady spoke to her over her shoulder.

“What a sweet face your friend has. Like a suffering madonna.”

“Oh, no, she’s very bright,” Iris assured her. “And she’s definitely not a friend.”

They crossed the last dangerously clanking connecting-way, and entered the restaurant-car, which seemed full already. The Misses Flood-Porter—both wearing well-cut white linen travelling-coats—had secured a table and were drinking tea.