"Don't weep, my love," replied the lady, straining him still more closely to her. 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. And listen, John. Either you have had to love people or hate them—which is a sort of love, too, in its way—to get anything out of them. At the least, the tales had the ability to make her forget where she was; which was something in their favour. I didn't think. I. “And you?” “Same thing.
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