"Why they are parlor cars.... Here we are.... Is the only piece of straight sex-ceremonial left to us."
"How's that?"
"The ring, my dear fellow, the ring.... What could be more of a symbol than a ring? Why, among the aborigines of the Caribbean ..."
"Why, look who's here?... Why, this is a class reunion, boys." A red, round face topped by straight black hair slicked across a bald forehead was poked in the door. "You remember me, don't you, Henley?"
"Sure I do, Randall. I haven't seen you since our last class day. How are you?... As I was saying, Macdougan, among the aborigines of the Caribbean ..."
"I think I'll join you fellers if you don't mind. Gee, it's great isn't it, that old Cham is gettin' hitched?"
"That depends...."
"Not if you know the bride," Randall hitched up his blue serge trousers and let himself sink down broadly on to the leather seat. "Ah ... A lovely, sweet girl."
"Yes, I know her," said Fanshaw frostily. He turned and looked out at the empty windows of the train on the next track. Through them he could see more windows, people sitting in a parlor car. There came a toot from the engine and the empty windows and the windows with people in them began to glide past. The seat rumbled; the train was moving, smoke cut out the view, cleared to reveal bridges and black water over which gulls veered screaming. Five gulls on the edge of a cake of ice.
A leather case of cigars was poked under his nose. "Thanks, I never smoke cigars." Fanshaw kept his face turned to the window, letting Henley talk to this Randall-man.