Fanshaw turned laughing from the window.
"Most eccentric... Why, everything's full of hoar-frost."
When the train reached Durham station the sun was shining palely. The cars exuded furs and orchids and derby hats and canes from either end. Outside the station several limousines and taxicabs were lined up waiting for the guests, and in front of them, pacing up and down the platform with the stationmaster, was a tall sallow man in a silk hat and a frock coat of which the straight line was broken in front by a sudden little pot belly that looked like a football tucked in under his vest.
"That's Mr. Harrenden," said Henley. "Let's walk up to the house to avoid the rush... Gosh, look at that feather. I bet she's one of the Pittsburghers."
"In full warpaint too," said Fanshaw tittering.
"How do you do, Mr. Harrenden?"
"Howdy, boys... Glad to see you. Step right into one of those cars, or perhaps you'ld rather walk. Leave more room for the lovely ladies... See you up at the house... Why, how do you do, Mrs. Harrison-Smith?"
"Come on, Macdougan," said Henley. Fanshaw followed him through the station. They walked briskly through the main street of the town, past a row of new concrete stores, and out along a macadam road that crunched frostily underfoot. Now and then a limousine full of guests passed them.
"It's only half a mile and we have plenty of time."
"Do you know Miss Harrenden, Henley?"