Leaping from the bed he grabs his valise from beneath it and dashes around the room snatching up what he can—a handful of underwear, one, two shirts, trousers, his shaving brush—he stuffs them into the suitcase and slams shut the lid, buckling it quickly.

“My goodness, Artist, you are in such a hurry,” says Gudrun, watching him with an irritatingly amused expression.

Bram ignores her. The events of the night before are fading. What matters now is today, meeting Lilith, getting out of London with her. Leaving the room without explanation or good-bye he races down the stairs and out of the house. He is groggy and uncoordinated, but the fresh spring air revives him.

She will be there. I know she will be there. And we will leave this stinking city and go somewhere quiet and peaceful, and I will tell her I love her and she will forgive me for being there last night, and everything will be wonderful.

St. Pancras station is abuzz with travelers, most of whom seem intent on getting in Bram’s way. He pushes through the crowds, abandoning manners in a desperate effort to get to platform three. By the time he arrives most passengers have already boarded the waiting train. He scans the faces milling about, searching for Lilith.

Might she have already boarded? No, she wouldn’t do that. I have the tickets. She would wait for me.

The platform empties as the last passengers step up into their chosen carriages and the guard walks briskly along slamming doors. Still there is no sign of Lilith. Bram begins to run, pointlessly up and down.

She will come. She must come.

The last door shuts with a loud clunk, the guard raises his flag and blows his whistle. The train gives an answering blast and, with the creaking and clanking of pistons and traction, begins to roll slowly forward. Steam billows back from the funnel as the engine gathers momentum. Bram stands, hopeless and bewildered, staring back along the empty platform until the tail end of the last carriage has chugged past him and disappeared out of view.

The energy born of eagerness and passion drains out of him, so that he sits forlornly on his suitcase, chin in hands. He upset her at the ball, he is certain of it now. He should never have gone. His presence there served only to underline the differences between them.

She has thought better of seeing me. She has seen the hopelessness of it all.