fate would drive him to revolts which no servant should witness, but on this evening Dr. Gilbert's tonic held him fairly calm while he put up his patent razors.
Waterloo Station shook, him into real life. The change for his ticket needed concentration, if only to prevent shillings and pence turning into minutes at the booking-office; and he spoke quickly to a porter about the disposition of his bag. The old 10.8 from Waterloo to the West was an all-night caravan that halted, in the interests of the milk traffic, at almost every station.
Dr. Gilbert stood by the door of the one composite corridor-coach; an older and stouter man behind him, 'So glad you're here!' he cried. 'Let me get your ticket.'
'Certainly not,' Conroy answered. 'I got it myself—long ago. My bag's in too,' he added proudly.
'I beg your pardon. Miss Henschil's here. I'll introduce you.'
'But—but,' he stammered—'think of the state I'm in. If anything happens I shall collapse.'
'Not you. You'd rise to the occasion like a bird. And as for the self-control you were talking of the other day'—Gilbert swung him round—'look!'
A young man in an ulster over a silk-faced frock-coat stood by the carriage window, weeping shamelessly.
'Oh, but that's only drink,' Conroy said. 'I haven't had one of my—my things since lunch.'
'Excellent!' said Gilbert. 'I knew I could
