How we got out of the train and into the car, neither of us ever knew. When I recovered my senses, she was sitting as far away as possible in an open landaulette, staring at my dressing-case and her bag, and moaning.
"Whatever must they think? Whatever must they think?"
"They can't think we've been married long," said I musingly. "They only do that sort of thing on the honeymoon."
She shivered.
"I wouldn't mind if they thought we were married, but they know we aren't."
"I suppose they do."
"Of course they do. Or they will."
Here some children cheered as we went by. She bowed abstractedly, and I raised my hat, as in a trance.
"What's this village?" I said.
"Oh, Whinnerley, I suppose. No, it isn't."