‘But how can he refuse? It is--’ She checked herself, remembering that words were two-edged. ‘Oh, he writes in quite a friendly way--makes a sort of joke of it. We’ve to get what we can of him, he says. But he doesn’t get off if I can help it. I must see Yottle on our way tomorrow.’ ‘Keene wants me to write a book about New Wanley,’ he said presently. ‘A book?’ ‘Well, a small one. It could be called, “My Work at New Wanley.” It might do good.’ ‘Yes, it might,’ Adela assented absently. ‘You look tired. Get off to bed; you’ll have to be up early in the morning, and it’ll be a hard day.’ Adela went, hopeful of oblivion till the ‘hard day’ should dawn. The next morning they were in Belwick by half-past nine. Alfred took leave of them and went off to business. He promised to ‘look them up’ in London before very long, probably at Christmas. Between him and Mutimer there was make-believe of cordiality at parting; they had long ceased to feel any real interest in each other. Adela had to spend the time in the railway waiting-room whilst her husband went to see Yottle. It was a great bare place; when she entered, she found a woman in mourning, with a little boy, sitting alone. The child was eating a bun, his mother was silently shedding tears. Adela seated herself as far from them as possible, out of delicacy, but she saw the woman look frequently towards her, and at last rise as if to come and speak. She was a feeble, helpless-looking being of about thirty; evidently the need of sympathy overcame her, for she had no other excuse for addressing Adela save to tell that her luggage had gone astray, and that she was waiting in the hope that something might be heard of it. Finding a gentle listener, she talked on and on, detailing the wretched circumstances under which she had recently been widowed, and her miserable prospects in a strange town whither she was going. Adela made an effort to speak in words of comfort, but her own voice sounded hopeless in her ears. In the station was a constant roaring and hissing, bell-ringing and the shriek of whistles, the heavy trundling of barrows, the slamming of carriage-doors; everywhere a smell of smoke. It impressed her as though all the ‘world had become homeless, and had nothing to do but journey hither and thither in vain search of a resting-place. And her waiting lasted more than an hour. But for the effort to dry another’s tears it would have been hard to restrain her own.