“Better let the ’bus take it. I can say a word to the conductor,” persisted Uncle George, now burdened with the bag.
“Oh, it isn’t far. I think I’d rather keep an eye on it.”
“Just as you like.”
Uncle George raised his eyebrows, and they trudged away down the dusty station road.
Lydia was tired and hot in her new, fussy black clothes, and the contrast between her present discomfort and those condemned, self-indulgent ways of her mother, in the advantages of which she had always shared, brought a genuine realization of loss to her mind with a dull pang.
“What made your train late?” Uncle George inquired, patiently shifting the suit-case into his other hand.
“Was it late?”
“Surely. Wasn’t it, Beryl?”
“I think it was. About five or ten minutes.”
Her brother immediately looked astonished.