In the barn-like Waverley Station wherein the passengers seemed like so many strewn grains from the threshing, she had slipped clear of her trouble. She too was now but a grain, a speck, whereas last night her heart had filled the universe with its heavy and clamorous throbbing. In this restored proportion she had only her infinitesimal part in the whole, and it was enough. Behind her lay great misery: before her in London she knew that more awaited her. But she might make of this journey a quiet breathing space – a narrow oasis in which for an hour she could forget the choking desert.

Having no stomach yet for everyday victuals, she had bought herself a little, rare basketful of fruit. Here was a knot of grapes the colour of glacier water, here were two granadillas – passion-flower fruits with their tough rinds full of luscious, translucent globules, here were almonds to crunch, a white-fleshed apple into which to drive one’s teeth, a peach from which the velvet, scented skin came glibly away.

Leaning back idly in the corner of an empty compartment she watched the wheeling countryside. It was a poet’s May morning, one of those mornings when white, white clouds are piled up and gleaming, and the sunshine lies like snow along the hedges. Young lambs that might themselves have been snow leavings, were scattered upon the emerald grass. A faint, low haze of hyacinths hovered in the bare woods. In one small station, through which the train passed without stopping, the steep banks were rich with crocuses that had already been split and ravished – with crocuses that were flaming their lives out like passionate lamps.

Joanna sat on that side of the train next to the corridor, and every now and then, passing between her and the Lothians, some passenger would blot out a whole brown woodland or amber-coloured field or bare hill of palest amethyst. To her at the moment one broad, obscuring back was like another. She hardly realized, therefore, that a particular pair of tweed shoulders returned again and again until they came at length to a hesitating stand-still opposite the door of her compartment. Even when the door opened, and a man’s brown face looked in with inquiring friendliness, and a lean hand was stretched out, and her name warmly uttered – even then it was several moments before she realized that the stranger was her old playmate, Bob Ranken.

“Joanna! It is you!”

“Why … Bob!”

He wrung her hand and sat down opposite, smiling – taking off his hat, looking at her with evident pleasure.

Joanna too looked at him. He was the same old Bob! After the first shock of shyness and strangeness she saw that he had not really changed. He was bigger, older, and certain marks of worldly assurance were as clear as the deep sun-wrinkles that surrounded his eyes. But the African sun had not burned away the spiritual indecision lurking about his attractive lips, nor informed the almost callow innocence of his gaze.