As she fell asleep she realised that this was only the second time in all her life that she had been in a train.Some one bawled in her car "Skeaton! Skeaton!" and she looked up to find a goat-faced porter gazing at her through the window.She was on a storm-driven platform, her husband's arm was through hers, she was being helped into an old faded cab.Now they were driving down a hill, under a railway-arch, along a road with villas and trees, trees and villas, and then villas alone.What a wind! The bare branches were in a frenzy, and from almost every villa blew little pennons of white curtains."They like to have their windows open any way," she thought.Paul said very little; he was obviously nervous of how she would take it all.She took it all very well.
"What pretty houses!" she said."And here are the shops!"Only a few--a sweet-shop, a grocer's, a stationer's with "Simpson's Library" on the door, a post-office.
"The suburbs," said Paul.
What a wind! It rolled up the road like a leaping carpet, you could almost see its folds and creases.No one about--not a living soul.
"The cab I ordered never came.Lucky thing there was one there,"said Paul.
Not a soul about.Does any one live here? She could not see much through the window, and she could hear nothing because the glass rattled so.
"Here we are!" The cab stopped with a jerk.Here they were then.Agate swung to behind them, there was a little drive with bushes on either side of it and then the house.