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. Spurlock was no longer a man before this instinct; he was a child in trouble. A stack of chimneys, on the house above them, had yielded to the storm, and descended in a shower of bricks and stones. She walked straight across to the wardrobe and opened it. "Can you not love him?" "Love him!" echoed the widow. She had grabbed! She became less and less attentive to his meditative, self-complacent fragments of talk as she told herself this. Lucy had been ignoring her, not purposefully, but noticeably. Until two hours ago she was as contented and as happy as a linnet.
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