“This one?” and he opened a door.
She stood watching the hissing and panting engine, while Gethryn climbed in and placed her bags and rugs in a window corner. The car smelt damp and musty, and he stepped out with a choking sensation in his chest. A train man came along, closing doors with a slam.
“All aboard—ladies—gentlemen—voyageurs?” he growled, as if to himself or some familiar spirit, and jerked a sullen clang from the station bell. The engine panted impatiently.
Rex struggled against the constraint that seemed to be dividing them.
“Yvonne, you will write?”
“I don’t know!”
“You don’t know! Yvonne!”
“I know nothing except that I am wicked, and my mother is dying!” She said it in low, even tones, looking away from him.
The gong struck again, with a startling clash.
The engine shrieked; a cloud of steam rose from under the wheels. Rex hurried her into the carriage; there was no one else there. Suddenly she threw herself into his arms.