In all this world there was no sacred ground that said to her: Return! She was of all human beings the most lonely. It was hard to resist. The sky was cloudless, effulgent blue. How is she?” “My sister is quite well, thank you,” she answered. He looked at his port wine as though that tawny ruby contained the solution of the matter. It rained heavily all day, so he did not stir forth. For in life there is but one hour: an epic or an idyll: all other hours lead up to and down from it. Fate has two methods of procedure—the sudden and the long-drawn-out. 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. In a moment he was beside her.
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