“That’s all your luggage?”
“Much obliged, I’m sure.”
(But why do you look about you? Hilda won’t come to the station, nor John; and Moggridge is driving at the far side of Eastbourne).
“I’ll wait by my bag, ma’am, that’s safest. He said he’d meet me. . . . Oh, there he is! That’s my son.”
So they walk off together.
Well, but I’m confounded. . . . Surely, Minnie, you know better! A strange young man.. . . Stop! Till tell him—Minnie!—Miss Marsh!—I don’t know though. There’s something queer in her cloak as it blows. Oh, but it’s untrue, it’s indecent. . . . Look how he bends as they reach the gateway. She finds her ticket. What’s the joke? Off they go, down the road, side by side. . . . Well, my world’s done for! What do I stand on? What do I know? That’s not Minnie. There never was Moggridge. Who am I? Life’s bare as bone.
And yet the last look of them—he stepping
