“At least,” she said doubtfully, “I shall see you at the station.”
“At Waterloo?” he asked.
“No, at Wimbledon,” she replied, in her metallic tone.
“But——” he began.
“It will be the best way for us,” she interrupted, in the calm tone of conviction. “Much better than crossing London from Victoria to Waterloo.”
“Very well,” he replied.
He looked up a train for her in his little timetable.
“You will get in Wimbledon 10.5—leave 10.40—leave Waterloo 11.30,” he said.
“Very good,” she answered.
The brakes were grinding. They waited in a burning suspense for the train to stop.
“If only she will soon go!” thought Siegmund. It was an intolerable minute. She rose; everything was a red blur. She stood before him, pressing his hand; then he rose to give her the bag. As he leaned upon the window-frame and she stood below on the platform, looking up at him, he could scarcely breathe. “How long will it be?” he said to himself, looking at the open carriage doors. He hated intensely the lady who could not get a porter to remove her luggage; he could have killed her; he could have killed the dilatory guard. At last the doors slammed and the whistle went. The train started imperceptibly into motion.
“Now I lose her,” said Siegmund.
She looked up at him; her face was white and dismal.
