The train roared through a cutting and gathered speed. “Rackety-plan, rackety-plan,” it said, faster and faster, as though out of patience with its journey. The guard came through and turned down the lamps. Now the white faces of the travellers looked more cadaverous than ever. The carriage was filled with tobacco smoke. Everything felt grimy and stale. The shrill laughter of Miss Valerie Gaynes, in ecstasy over a witticism of Mr. Liversidge’s, rose above the din. She stood up, a little dishevelled in her expensive fur coat, and began to walk down the carriage. She swayed, clutched the backs of seats, stumbled and fell half across George Mason’s knees. He gave her a disinterested squeeze, and made a knowing grimace at Gascoigne who said something about: “If you will go native.” Miss Gaynes yelped and got up. As she passed Hambledon and the tall man she paused and said:

“I’m going to my sleeper. They call it ‘de luxe.’ My God, what a train!”

She staggered on. When she opened the door the iron clamour of their progress filled the carriage. Cold night air rushed in from outside bringing a taint of acrid smoke. She struggled with the door, trying to shut it behind her. They could see her through the glass panel, leaning against the wind. Hambledon got up and slammed the door and she disappeared.

“Have you taken a sleeper?” asked the tall man.

“No,” said Hambledon. “I should not sleep and I should probably be sick.”

“That’s how I feel about it, too.”

“Carolyn and Meyer have gone to theirs. They are the only other members of the company who have risked it. That young woman has just got to be expensive. Valerie, I mean.”

“I noticed that in the ship. Who is she? Any relation of old Pomfret Gaynes, the shipping man?”

“Daughter.” Hambledon leant forward again. “Academy of Dramatic Art, Lord knows how big an allowance, an insatiable desire for the footlights and adores the word ‘actress’ on her passport.”

“Is she a good actress?”

“Dire.”

“Then how—?”

“Pomfret,” said Hambledon, “and push.”

“It seems a little unjust in an overcrowded profession.”

“That’s how it goes,” said Hambledon with a shrug. “The whole business is riddled with preferment nowadays. It’s just one of those things.”

Susan Max’s head lolled to one side. Hambledon took her travelling cushion and slipped it between her cheek and the wall. She was fast asleep.

“There’s your real honest-to-God actress,” he said, leaning forward again. “Her father was an actor-manager in Australia and started life as a child-performer in his father’s stock company. Susan has trouped for forty-five years. It’s in her blood. She can play anything from grande dame to trollop, and play it well.”

“What about Miss Dacres? Or should I say Mrs. Meyer? I never know with married stars.”