Though she had nearly an hour to wait for her train, she could not leave the magic enclosure of the station. She was filled there – for the first time these many days – with the strangest expectancy; and even apart from this, she found pleasure in the bustling holiday sight. Kilted men with guns swung past her, followed by excited retriever dogs. Anglers in shabby homespuns carrying their rods and baskets, moved more philosophically. Everywhere trolleys heaped with kitbags and golf-clubs blocked the way. Children clutching green butterfly nets hurried before their parents across the big black iron bridge. They were fearful lest they should not find their platform in this widespread network of arrival and departure. How well Joanna remembered that trembling lest the others should lag and keep one back, and so one’s heart be broken by the sight of a missed train. Duntarvie, Duntarvie! Would the stream still be flowing clear brown, and its furry stones be sheltering the spotted trout? Would the heron still have his nest upon the island in the upper pond? Would the blaeberries be ripe and the larches heavy with their swinging tassels?

In the refreshment room to which she was driven by a slight dizziness, memory was further assailed by a vision of her mother’s unslept but ardent face of travel. It had always been part of the ritual of the long journey from Glasgow that Juley should take her children here to drink tea out of these thick, white cups that had the thrilling word Perth emblazoned across them upon a blue strap.

Having ordered tea, she went to a small table opposite the entrance. Above that was the clock; and even while she raised the cup to her lips, she could hardly take her eyes from the slow, jerking, minute hand upon the dial. Only twenty minutes now, and she would be on her way!

A traveller came pushing himself in between the swing doors. He wore a sporting suit of a loud and gay pattern of tweed, woven perhaps in Scotland, but destined for no Scotsman to wear. And slung from his shoulders was a bulging ruck-sack.

“Carl! Carl Nilsson! My dear, dear Carl!”

Impetuously Joanna started from her seat and ran toward the newcomer, all the other people in the restaurant looking up to watch the meeting.

Strangers will always watch with a good deal of interest what is clearly a chance meeting. On this occasion, one at least of the onlookers – a stout woman of unimaginative appearance enough – was so anxious not to miss a single clue, that she could spare no glance for the lump of sugar which she held suspended halfway to her cup. She dropped it with a clatter on the marble table-top: and even then did not take her eyes from Joanna’s face.