even suspected her nationality. I felt at once that she was a guide-book American, and marvelled that I hadn't spotted it. I opened my handbag and took out a book as I answered her. A book was the best defence I had to keep off conversation if she bored me.
'Oh,' I said politely, 'are there so many Americans going by this train?'
'Guess you haven't seen the passenger list,' she said in a tone of hurt surprise; 'why, it's just cram full with the very best American names. A good seventy-five per cent, on board this car, I reckon, come from the States. Why, there's——'
And she proceeded to give me the names and addresses of all the Americans on the train. Some of the people everybody had heard of, most of them, however, were unknown to fame this side. I murmured polite interest, and opened my book. I hadn't any use for a woman like this. But she was not to be shaken off so easily. She leaned forward and looked at the title of my book.
'What!' she exclaimed, 'are you reading "Number 2001, 25th Street"?'
'Yes,' I said coldly.
She was leaning forward, curiously eager.
'How do you like it?' she asked.
I felt downright annoyed at being interfered with like this. I made myself comfortable in my corner of the carriage, and deliberately opened the book at the place where I had left off reading it the day before.
'I think it's one of the most fascinating books
