The Gypsies had told me that they would go to Lime Street Station at seven o’clock, and that their train would leave at half-past eight. Twice before under similar circumstances they had tried to hoodwink me, and it seemed that they had tricked me again, for when at half-past seven I reached Lime Street there was never a gay red skirt to be seen, nor even a braided coat. Moreover, on inquiry, I learned that no train for Dover left that or any other Liverpool Station at eight-thirty. Almost glad to escape a renewal of the afternoon’s hostilities I began to retrace my steps. I had not walked a couple of hundred yards when, from afar, I spied a flash of colour so brilliant that it could have been nothing except a Gypsy girl’s dress. She was standing outside the Central Station, where the tribe had assembled to wait two hours, for their train was scheduled to start at half-past nine. A microcosm within, yet untouched by, the greater world, these outlandish people sat perfectly self-possessed and completely isolated amid a throng of inquisitive strangers whose presence imported to them as little as the presence of the vulgar sparrows. They were adventuring on a journey longer than that which their ancestors undertook centuries ago when they emigrated from India, yet they exhibited no greater emotion than if they were changing parishes. On the platform they had grouped themselves by families, and behind each group was a hillock of trunks, utensils, bedding, carpets and tents; but before I reached them Vasili and another lad met me and, postponing my farewell interview with the elders, I turned back with the boys to buy them cigarettes. In the street we found Fardi, and he accompanied us to a tobacconist.