I have to sit staring at my own plain, grimed, bored face.

In a sudden fury, I draw the little red silk curtain across my own image.

Thank God! I can no longer see myself.

Sir Roger ceases to try his eyes with the print of the _Westminster_, and closes it.
"I wonder," say I, pouring some eau-de-cologne on my pocket-handkerchief, and trying to cleanse my face therewith, but only succeeding in making it a muddy instead of a dusty smudge--"I wonder whether we shall meet any one we know at Dresden ?" "I should not wonder," replies Sir Roger, cheerfully.
"Is the Hotel de Saxe the place where most English go ?" inquire I, anxiously.

"Ah, you do not know! I must ask Schmidt." "Yes, do." "I hope we shall," say I, straining my eyes to make out the objects in the dark outside.