He caught the boat-train from Charing Cross. It was a sparkling morning in the last week of June, the season of hay-making and roses. He had received his instructions in a brief note. It bore no address; the postmark showed that it had been dispatched from Rouen. When the train was in motion he studied it afresh; he could have repeated it line for line from memory:
My dear,
Come Saturday. I’ll meet you in Paris at the Gare du Nord 445. Bring only hand-baggage—evening dress not necessary.
Here are my terms. No kissing, no love-making, nothing like that till I give permission. We’re just two friends who have met by accident and have made up our minds to travel together. Don’t join me, if you can’t live up to the contract.
Many thoughts,
Yours affectionately,
The Princess.
He had stared at the letter so long that they were panting through the hop-fields of Kent by the time he put it back in his pocket. A breeze silvered the backs of leaves, making them tremulous. The spires of Canterbury floated up.
He knew the way she traveled, with mountainous trunks and more gowns than she could wear. Why had she been so explicit that he should bring only hand-baggage? Was it because their time together was to be short, or because she knew that at the last minute she might turn coward? She had left herself another loop-hole: she had sent him no address. Even if she were there to meet him, he might miss her on the crowded platform. And if he did—— His fears lest he might miss her battled with his scruples.
Dover and the flash of the sea! Scruples dwindled in importance; the goal of his anticipations grew nearer.