Well, the precious, darling, joyful time came to an end, and I was once more in the train. I was in the train, but on the rack above me there was no longer a brown-paper parcel—a hideous, humiliating brown-paper parcel. On the contrary, there was a neat little trunk in the luggage-van, and the only thing I had with me was my umbrella, which I held in my hand. I was wearing the dark-blue dress with the grey fur, so my hands were warm with my little grey muff, and altogether I was a totally different creature from the girl who had travelled down to Chelmsford on the Saturday before.
Hannah was waiting for me on one of the big platforms at Liverpool Street Station. I was amused at the way she stared at me.
“Sakes!” she cried, “who’s that?”
I went up to her and clapped her on the shoulder.
“It’s I. I am smart, am I not, Hannah?”
“Sakes!” said Hannah again, “I wouldn’t ha’ known you. Here, come along—do. Where in the name of fortune did you get them things from?”
“I’ll tell you presently.”
“And where’s your brown-paper parcel? My word, if it’s lost there’ll be a fuss! I don’t think I dare take you home if the parcel is lost; all your best linen in it, and your night-dress with the frills, and the handkerchiefs, and the stockings, and the dress you went down in, and the new skirt and blouse as the Professor gave you. Wherever be the parcel?”
I felt very dignified and grand. I called a porter.
“My luggage is in the van behind that carriage,” I said—“the van at the end of the train.”