"We always seem to wind up our quarrels in cabs," Maurice observed.
"I don't know why we quarrel. I hate quarreling."
"We won't any more."
As the horse strained up through the echoing cavern of Waterloo, they kissed each other good-bye, a long, long kiss.
There were still ten minutes before the train left, and among the sweep of hurrying passengers and noise of shouting porters to an accompaniment of whistling, rumbling trains, Maurice tried to voice the immortality of his love.
"Great Scott, I've only a minute," he said suddenly. "Look, meet me on Monday week, the twenty-third, here, at three-thirty. Three-thirty from Claybridge. Don't forget."
"Take your seats, please," a ticket inspector shouted in their ears. Maurice jumped into his compartment and wrote quickly on an envelope: "3.30. Waterloo. Ap. 23. Claybridge."
"Good-bye, darling, darling girl. I'll bring you back some castanets and a Spanish frock."
"Good-bye. See you soon."
"Very, very soon. Think of me."