One travelling bag was all he carried. Some purchases that he had made in London—especially the great work on French cathedrals—were already despatched to Birmingham, to lie in the care of Robert Narramore.
He reached Charing Cross half an hour before train-time, and waited at the entrance. Several cabs that drove up stirred his expectation only to disappoint him. He was again in an anguish of fear lest Eve should not come. A cab arrived, with two boxes of modest appearance. He stepped forward and saw the girls' faces.
Between him and Eve not a word passed. They avoided each other's look. Patty, excited and confused, shook hands with him.
"Go on to the platform," he said. "I'll see after everything. This is all the luggage?"
"Yes. One box is mine, and one Eve's. I had to face it out with the people at home," she added, between laughing and crying. "They think I'm going to the seaside, to stay with Eve till she gets better. I never told so many fibs in my life. Uncle stormed at me, but I don't care."
"All right; go on to the platform."
Eve was already walking in that direction. Undeniably she looked ill; her step was languid; she did not raise her eyes. Hilliard, when he had taken tickets and booked the luggage through to Paris, approached his travelling companions. Seeing him, Eve turned away.
"I shall go in a smoking compartment," he said to Patty. "You had better take your tickets."
"But when shall we see you again?"
"Oh, at Dover, of course."