“How good of you to meet me, darling!”
Felix pointed in silence to the crowded carriage from which she had emerged. Frances Freeland looked a little rueful. “It would have been delightful,” she said. “There was a dear baby there and, of course, I couldn't have the window down, so it WAS rather hot.”
Felix, who could just see the dear baby, said dryly:
“So that's how you go about, is it? Have you had any lunch?”
Frances Freeland put her hand under his arm. “Now, don't fuss, darling! Here's sixpence for the porter. There's only one trunk—it's got a violet label. Do you know them? They're so useful. You see them at once. I must get you some.”
“Let me take those things. You won't want this cushion. I'll let the air out.”
“I'm afraid you won't be able, dear. It's quite the best screw I've ever come across—a splendid thing; I can't get it undone.”
“Ah!” said Felix. “And now we may as well go out to the car!”
He was conscious of a slight stoppage in his mother's footsteps and rather a convulsive squeeze of her hand on his arm. Looking at her face, he discovered it occupied with a process whose secret he could not penetrate, a kind of disarray of her features, rapidly and severely checked, and capped with a resolute smile. They had already reached the station exit, where Stanley's car was snorting. Frances Freeland looked at it, then, mounting rather hastily, sat, compressing her lips.
When they were off, Felix said: