depend on you. Come along. Wait for a minute, Chartres.'
A tall woman, veiled, sat by the far window. She bowed her head as the doctor murmured Conroy knew not what. Then he disappeared and the inspector came for tickets.
'My maid—next compartment,' she said slowly.
Conroy showed his ticket, but in returning it to the sleeve-pocket of his ulster the little silver Najdolene case slipped from his glove and fell to the floor. He snatched it up as the moving train flung him into his seat.
'How nice!' said the woman. She leisurely lifted her veil, unbuttoned the first button of her left glove, and pressed out from its palm a Najdolene-case.
'Don't!' said Conroy, not realising he had spoken.
'I beg your pardon.' The deep voice was measured, even, and low. Conroy knew what made it so.
'I said "don't"! He wouldn't like you to do it!'
'No, he would not.' She held the tube with its ever-presented tabloid between finger and thumb. 'But aren't you one of the—ah—"soul-weary" too?'
'That's why. Oh, please don't! Not at first. I—I haven't had one since morning. You—you'll set me off!'
'You? Are you so far gone as that?'
He nodded, pressing his palms together. The train jolted through Vauxhall points, and was
