“Hurry up,” said Peter, “or we shall miss the 9.15!”
“I can't hurry more than I am doing,” said Phyllis. “Oh, bother it! My bootlace has come undone AGAIN!”
“When you're married,” said Peter, “your bootlace will come undone going up the church aisle, and your man that you're going to get married to will tumble over it and smash his nose in on the ornamented pavement; and then you'll say you won't marry him, and you'll have to be an old maid.”
“I shan't,” said Phyllis. “I'd much rather marry a man with his nose smashed in than not marry anybody.”
“It would be horrid to marry a man with a smashed nose, all the same,” went on Bobbie. “He wouldn't be able to smell the flowers at the wedding. Wouldn't that be awful!”
“Bother the flowers at the wedding!” cried Peter. “Look! the signal's down. We must run!”
They ran. And once more they waved their handkerchiefs, without at all minding whether the handkerchiefs were clean or not, to the 9.15.
“Take our love to Father!” cried Bobbie. And the others, too, shouted:—
“Take our love to Father!”
The old gentleman waved from his first-class carriage window. Quite violently he waved. And there was nothing odd in that, for he always had waved. But what was really remarkable was that from every window handkerchiefs fluttered, newspapers signalled, hands waved wildly. The train swept by with a rustle and roar, the little pebbles jumped and danced under it as it passed, and the children were left looking at each other.