the word Sarthe, which means a pedlar, and these were going evidently
to Tachkend, where these pedlars swarm.

In this car the two Chinese have taken their places, opposite each
other. The young Celestial looks out of window. The old one--Ta-lao-ye,
that is to say, a person well advanced in years--is incessantly turning
over the pages of his book. This volume, a small 32mo, looks like our
_Annuaire du Bureau des Longitudes_, and is covered in plush, like a
breviary, and when it is shut its covers are kept in place by an
elastic band. What astonishes me is that the proprietor of this little
book does not seem to read it from right to left. Is it not written in
Chinese characters? We must see into this!

On two adjoining seats are Ephrinell and Miss Horatia Bluett. Their
talk is of nothing but figures. I don't know if the practical American
murmurs at the ear of the practical Englishwoman the adorable verse
which made the heart of Lydia palpitate:

"Nee tecum possum vivere sine te,"

but I do know that Ephrinell can very well live without me. I have been
quite right in not reckoning on his company to charm away the tedium of
the journey. The Yankee has completely "left" me--that is the word--for
this angular daughter of Albion.

I reach the platform. I cross the gangway and I am at the door of the
second car.

In the right-hand corner is Baron Weissschnitzerdoerfer. His long
nose--this Teuton is as short-sighted as a mole--rubs the lines of the
book he reads. The book is the time-table. The impatient traveler is
ascertaining if the train passes the stations at the stated time.
Whenever it is behind there are new recriminations and menaces against
the Grand Transasiatic Company.

In this car there are also the Caternas, who have made themselves quite
comfortable. In his cheery way, the husband is talking with a good deal
of gesticulation, sometimes touching his wife's hands, sometimes
putting his arms round her waist; and then he turns his head toward the
platform and says something aside. Madame Caterna leans toward him,
makes little confused grimaces, and then leans back into the corner and
seems to reply to her husband, who in turn replies to her. And as I
leave I hear the chorus of an operetta in the deep voice of Monsieur
Caterna.

In the third car, occupied by many Turkomans and three or four
Russians, I perceive Major Noltitz. He is talking with one of his
countrymen. I will willingly j