The door into the passage offered itself with an irresistible invitation—the one alternative to a public, inexplicable passion of weeping. She had a compartment to herself in the train from London to Morningside Park, and she sat with both her feet on the seat in an attitude that would certainly have distressed her mother to see, and horrified her grandmother beyond measure; she sat with her knees up to her chin and her hands clasped before them, and she was so lost in thought that she discovered with a start, from a lettered lamp, that she was at Morningside Park, and thought she was moving out of the station, whereas she was only moving in. The winters were bitter here, they could have just as easily been frozen off. But he seized the chance to entrap her fingers, fan and all, and look deeply into her eyes.
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