rather fancied ourselves in them. Of these topis, alas! more anon.
And so after many days of much talk and anticipation, of much contradictory advice from friends, of much bustle and preparation, there we were saying good-bye at Charing Cross Station.
Charing Cross Station that morning didn't seem to know itself. I guess there's always a bit of life to be seen round about there, but that Thursday morning must have gone just right away with the record. It looked as if all London were at home there, and the guests had been asked to bring along with them all the luggage they possessed. Porters darted here, there, and everywhere amongst the crowd struggling along under huge trunks that contained the finery that was to rival even the gorgeous East, or wheeling about smooth-running trucks that threatened to topple over from a superfluity of many boxes neatly poised. Trim-looking maids and irreproachable valets for once forgot their breeding, and rushed distracted through the crowd. Only Ermyntrude remained serene.
It was a real fine crowd. Smart young men in well-built frock coats and top-hats gossiped with smarter women, in suitable or unsuitable travelling costume, as the case might be. Fond mammas wore a slightly worried look, while charming daughters grew flushed with the excitement attendant on the start on such a journey of exploration to an unknown land. Ubiquitous aunts and cousins showed up in full force, and made of it a field-day.
I guess no one who saw me that morning will deny
