Gordon was so immensely absorbed in his own feelings that he made no effort of imagination.
“Didn’t you tell him that our ... our friendship was just ... spiritual?” he asked.
Her smile was faint and sad and shadowy. A ghost who had overheard a good one in a smoking-room might have laughed as hilariously.
“My dear ... who would believe that? Now hurry, I must go.”
Her little hand trembled for a second on his arm and she was gone.
He picked up his bag, it was curiously heavy, and followed her into the station. She was nowhere in sight. A porter stretched a suggestive hand toward his baggage.
“Continental train, sir ... have you got a seat?”
Gordon looked up at the clock. It wanted five minutes of eleven.
“Eleven-five the boat train, sir,” said the porter.