The train curved into the station and pulled up slowly. He made for the door of a first-class carriage where he saw Mr. Lovering getting out. The parson was a little man, all forehead and nose. When Gobion came up he was struggling with a bundle of rugs and umbrellas.
"Ah, dear boy, you have come then. So good of you. Get Marjorie out while I find our luggage."
Then Marjorie came down from the carriage, glowing with health and spirits, her dark eyes flashing when they saw Gobion.
"Dearest," he said. She put her little gloved hand into his, looking up in his face, while his blood ran faster through his veins.
"Caradoc, dear, it is so jolly to see you again; we are going to stay in London for over a fortnight, and you shall take me about everywhere. Oh, here's father."
The little man bustled up. He was one of those dreadful people whom a railway journey excites to a species of frenzy. He ran up and down the platform, dancing round the truck which held his baggage, holding a piece of paper in his hand, muttering, "One black bag—yes; two corded trunks—yes; one hat-box—yes; two boxes of ferns—yes; one bundle of rugs—y—NO! Marjorie! where are the rugs? Gobion, I know I had the rugs after we got out—a big bundle with a striped red and green one on the outside."
"You're carrying it, aren't you, Mr. Lovering?"
"Dear me! so I am. How very stupid of me! Now if you will get a cab I should be so obliged—a four-wheeler, mind!"
Gobion secured one and came back, standing by Marjorie while the luggage was hoisted on the roof.
"I do hate a silly old four-wheeler!" she said.