ill-lit,
poorer still. Its dirty splendour dominated everything: even the tall
trams took on a lesser light. The lumbering roar of wheels, the
insistent clamour of an obstructed tram, the hoarse shouts of hawkers
crying their wares--all this rose up above the rumble of the
slow-moving train. I was glad when we had left the spot behind. It
would not do after the country-side. It occurred to me that, but a
little space back some seventy rolling years--here also had stretched
fair green fields. Perchance the very ones poor dying Falstaff had
babbled of. We slunk past an asylum--a long mass, dark, sinister. By
this even the trams seemed to hasten. I could just hear their thin
song, as they slid forward.

Enough. Already I was half-way to depression. Resolutely I turned,
giving the window my shoulder. My Lady had not stirred. Wistfully I
regarded her closed eyes. In five minutes we should be in, and there
were things I wanted to say... A smile crept into the gentle face.

"Go on," she said quietly. "I'm listening."

"I was wondering, goddess, if I should ever see you again."

"Oh, probably! The world's awfully small. Not for some time, though.
I leave for Cannes to-morrow, to join my people."

"Cannes!" I exclaimed.

"Yes. You must have heard of it. Where the weather comes from."

"Where it stays, you mean," I growled, as the rising wind flung a
handful of raindrops against the windows. For a moment I sat silent,
looking out into the night, thinking. Except for a luncheon, to-morrow
was free. And I could cut that. A network of shining rails showed
that the terminus was at hand. I turned to my lady.

"Then we shall meet again to-morrow," I said gravely. "I have to go
down to Dover, too."

"What for?" This suspiciously.

I rose and took up my hat. "Another dog," I said shortly.

She broke into silvery merriment. At length:

"Nonsense," she said, rising.

"Not at all," said I. "The Dover dogs are famous."

"Sea-dogs, perhaps," she murmured, setting one knee on the cushions to
look into the glass. "Well, you've been awfully kind, and I'm very
grateful. And now--" she swung round--"good-bye." She held out a slim
hand.

The train drew up to the platform.

"Good-bye?" said I, taking the cool fingers. She nodded.

"And I hope you'll get a good dog at Dover," she said, smiling. "I
shall think of you. You see, I'm going by Folkestone and Boulogne."

In silence I bent over