"What platform does the train for Africa start from?" she asked the porter.
"Well, lady, I can't rightly say. The only boat-train from here this morning goes to Folkestone, and that's off—but most likely the gentleman ud be going from Waterloo, and the trains for Waterloo start from number seven."
The porter took her to number seven, and at the barrier she caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on a bench. Father Lawrence's bullet head showed above the folds of his cloak; by his side was a big shapeless bundle and his eyes were fixed on the station roof. He started violently when a large woman suddenly sat down beside him and burst into tears.
"Lawrence!" sobbed Joanna—"Lawrence!"
"Joanna!"
He was too startled to say anything more, but the moment did not admit of much conversation. Joanna sat beside him, bent over her knees, her big shoulders shaking with sobs which were not always silent. Lawrence made himself as large as he could, but he could not hide her from the public stare, for nature had not made her inconspicuous, and her taste in clothes would have defeated nature if it had. Her orange toque had fallen sideways on her tawny hair—she was like a big, broken sunflower.
"My dear Jo," he said gently, after a time—"let me go and get you a drink of water."
"No—don't leave me."
"Then let me ask someone to go."
"No—no.... Oh, I'm all right—it's only that I felt so glad at seeing you again."