I.
Silent, gloom-ridden, my sniffing Mary, my black-browed George laboured to the station. Silent they sat upon a bench waiting the London train.
George bought his Mary a piece of chocolate from the automatic machine; she was a forlorn picture as with tiny nibbles she ate it, tears in her pretty eyes. In the restaurant George bought himself a huge cigar. This man was a desperate spectacle as with huge puffs he smoked, hands deep in pockets, legs thrust straight, brows horribly knitted.
They had no words.
The train came in. George found an empty compartment; helped his poor Mary to a corner; roughly dumped the cat-basket upon the rack; moodily plumped opposite his Mary.
They had no words.
It was as the train moved from the third stop that Mary, putting a giant sniff upon her emotions, asked her George: “Wher—where are we going, dear?”
It was not until the fifth stop that George made answer. “Those Battersea digs,” he told her.
They had no words.
At Queen's Road station gloomily they alighted; silently laboured to the house of Mrs. Pinking.