"My brother has the bags." Another hesitation. "He — he'll miss the train, I expect. There goes the horn now. You'd better get aboard."
That horn, tooting thinly through the shed, sounded inane. It was as though something were being torn away. A toy engine began to puff and stammer; the bumping shed winked with lights.
"Look here," he said, loudly, "if you're taking another train―"
"You'd better hurry!"
Then Rampole grew as inane as the horn. He cried in a rush: "To hell with the train! I can take another. I'm not going anywhere, as it is. I―"
She had to, raise her voice. He got the impression of a smile, bright and swashbuckling and pleased. "Silly! — I'm going to Chatterham, too. I shall probably see you there. Off you go!"
"Are you sure?"
"Of course."
"Well, that's all right, then. You see―"
She gestured at the train, and he swung aboard just as it got under way. He was craning out of one corridor window, trying to get a glimpse of her, when he heard the throaty voice call something after him, very distinctly. The voice said an extraordinary thing. It called: