“I am getting plain,” she said, with a little shudder. He made some obvious comments on the wide view warming toward its autumnal blaze that spread itself in hill and valley, wood and village, below. They sat face to face beneath an experienced-looking rucksack and a brand new portmanteau and a leather handbag, in the afternoon-boat train that goes from Charing Cross to Folkestone for Boulogne. "Why do you laugh?" she asked gravely. Thankfully only the children were home, so there was no one to take active notice that she had been accompanied on her way home from school. Nothing at all. I—In fact, I dislike him extremely.
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