“Aren’t we looking our best?” Peter demanded of Merle, as the train quitted the platform, and the belt of his Norfolk coat vanished down the corridor. “Or is he trying to impress us with the fact that for the future he intends to Lead a Man’s Life?”
They saw nothing of him during the next few hours, not even in the luncheon-car. And towards three o’clock Peter declared they must be within that distance of Dawlish, the station for Orson Manor, when respectable people with rugs would begin strapping them:
“Not having any rugs, we’ll compromise by washing our faces.”
Merle leant out of the window, and took a deep breath of the sparkling air.
“Stuart didn’t say it was near the sea,” as the train ran alongside the broken silver line of wave. “Why, this is Dawlish! Peter, here we are—we——”
The engine gathered all its slumbering forces, and thundered at the speed of a mile a minute through the tiny station in its setting of bold red rock.
“It—hasn’t—stopped,” gasped Merle. Which was obvious, seeing that her slight figure against the window was flung from side to side by the reckless pace at which the express was pounding through Devon.
And: “Stuart, it hasn’t stopped!” as that gentleman, with a pleasant smile, and still carrying his pipe, entered their compartment and sat down.
“No; this is the ‘Cornishman.’ It goes right through from Plymouth to Penzance.”
“But your sister?”