INSIDE the station cafe it was warm and light. The wood of the tables shone from wiping and there were baskets of pretzels in glazed paper sacks. The chairs were carved, but the seats were worn and comfortable. There was a carved wooden clock on the wall and a bar at the far end of the room. Outside the window it was snowing.
Two of the station porters sat drinking new wine at the table under the clock. Another porter came in and said the Simplon-Orient Express was an hour late at Saint-Maurice. He went out. The waitress came over to Mr. Wheeler’s table.
“The Express is an hour late, sir,” she said. “Can I bring you some coffee?”
“If you think it won’t keep me awake.”
“Please?” asked the waitress.
“Bring me some,” said Mr. Wheeler.
“Thank you.”
She brought the coffee from the kitchen and Mr. Wheeler looked out the window at the snow falling in the light from the station platform.
“Do you speak other languages besides English?” he asked the waitress.
“Oh, yes, sir. I speak German and French and the dialects.”
“Would you like a drink of something?”
“Oh, no, sir. It is not permitted to drink in the café with the clients.”
“You won’t take a cigar?”
