They kissed again as soberly as two children. She followed her Red Cap through the gates, not looking back.
He turned again to a city desolate.
The journey proved tedious and hot. Her Pullman porter brought her a paper-bag for her new straw hat. He brought her a pillow, also; and luncheon later.
She had plenty of reading matter provided by Annan, but it lay unopened on her lap; and Annan’s fruit, bon-bons, and flowers lay on the floor at her feet.
All that sunny morning and early afternoon she lay listlessly in her chair, watching the celebrated and deadly monotonous river, content to rest, unstirring, unthinking, her grey eyes partly closed, the water a running glimmer between her fringing lashes.
At East Summit she changed to the local. She recognised the conductor who took her ticket, but it was evident he did not know her, and she was content to let it go that way.
Familiar farms sped into view, fled past, succeeded by remembered hills and brooks and woods.
Reaping already was in progress on some farms. She noted, mechanically, the cattle as she passed through a dairy country. Mostly Holsteins. She saw a few Ayrshires with their Noah’s Ark horns; a herd or two of Guernseys—not to be compared to the Whitewater cattle as she remembered them.
Summit Centre held the train until people finished getting on and off, and the last crate of raspberries was aboard.