she had telegraphed for. Although she would not have admitted the fact, Ruth was in some ways superstitious. She was of the order of people to whom coincidence appeals. After disembarking at Calais and settling herself down with her maid in her double compartment in the Blue Train, she went along to the luncheon car. It was with a little shock of surprise that she found herself set down to a small table with, opposite her, the same woman who had been her vis-à-vis in the Pullman. A faint smile came to the lips of both women.
“This is quite a coincidence,” said Mrs. Kettering.
“I know,” said Katherine; “it is odd the way things happen.”
A flying attendant shot up to them with the wonderful velocity always displayed by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits and deposited two cups of soup. By the time the omelette succeeded the soup they were chatting together in friendly fashion.
“It will be heavenly to get into the sunshine,” sighed Ruth.
“I am sure it will be a wonderful feeling.”
“You know the Riviera well?”
“No; this is my first visit.”
“Fancy that.”
“You go every year, I expect?”
“Practically. January and February in London are horrible.”
“I have always lived in the country. They are not very inspiring months there either. Mostly mud.”
“What made you suddenly decide to travel?”