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“Single,” said Miss Mason firmly.

She took the little piece of cardboard from him and thrust it up her glove. She loved the feeling of it. It was her passport to freedom.

She watched the boxes being labelled. They were new boxes and hitherto guiltless of station labels. When she had seen them firmly attached, and had been solemnly assured by the porter that the paste was both strong and adhesive, she turned her attention to the bookstall. After a few moments’ survey she moved away hurriedly. The pictures on the covers of some of the books distressed her, especially one of a young female with red hair and very insufficient orange attire. For a moment Miss Mason blushed. But she forgot the objectionable book in looking along the shiny rails in the direction from which the train must arrive.

The sudden ringing of a bell made her jump.

“Train’s signalled, ma’am,” said the porter. “She’ll be here in five minutes now.”

“You’ll be sure and put in my boxes,” said Miss Mason.

“Sure, ma’am. Corner seat facing the engine, did you say?”