Trucks roll, and porters bawl past; luggage is violently shot into vans.

The last belated, panting passenger has got in.

The doors are slammed-to.

Off we go! The train is already in motion when the young man jumps on the step and thrusts in his hand for one parting shake.
"_Mon tout_," say I, screwing up my face into a crying shape, and speaking in a squeaky, pseudo-tearful voice, "_je ne saurai vous le dire!_" Then he is hustled off by an indignant guard and three porters, and we see him no more.

I throw myself back into my corner laughing.
"General," say I, "I think your young friend is nearly as soft-hearted as the girl in Tennyson who was 'Tender over drowning flies.' He looked as if he were going to _weep_, did not he?
and what on earth about ?".