Evidently a married couple come in the train from Tiflis, and unless I am mistaken they are French.
But although I look at them with curiosity, they take no notice of me.
They are too much occupied to see me.

In their hands, on their shoulders, they have bags and cushions and wraps and sticks and sunshades and umbrellas.

They are carrying every kind of little package you can think of which they do not care to put with the luggage on the steamer.

I have a good mind to go and help them.

Is it not a happy chance--and a rare one--to meet with French people away from France?
Just as I am walking up to them, Ephrinell appears, drags me away, and I leave the couple behind.