Ariadne was unwilling to do this now. She sat still in her corner and brooded, and that did just as well, for the would-be passengers looked in and saw her, and made up their minds that she was recovering from scarlet fever, or at least measles. I stood in the window, squarely, and looked ugly for two. I was interested in the country. It is quite hideous between Whitby and Morpeth. The reason is that it is an industrial centre. I began to wish that our eating (kitchen boilers) and keeping warm (coal) didn't mean so many people having to live black, and whole counties in a blanket of smoke. I don't think I approve of civilization, if this is what it comes out of? When the train slowed down at Morpeth, I could not help calling out to Ariadne, "I told you so!" for there was Christina Ball in a muslin dress, with a soft floppy chiffon hat and no veil at all. She was sitting in a little pony-cart, with an ugly child that couldn't be hers; we saw her from the train. It was a shock to Ariadne, and she was wild to get our box into the cloak-room first and unlock it and get out one of her old dresses. But how could she dress in the waiting-room? And besides, she would be certain to muddle the next thing I told her (and so she did). We got out of the station and into the trap. Christina had a new pony and couldn't get down--and it was arranged that our luggage was to come on by carrier, as our wicker trunk would be sure to scratch the smart new dog-cart. Off we went, I thought, and I am sure Ariadne thought, a little too like the wind. But Ariadne wanted to appear at ease, and casual and countrified, so she pretended to take an interest in the scenery, and said to Christina, "Look at the lovely tone of that verdigris on the pond!" The ugly child twitched her feet under the rug beside me; she said nothing, but looked it. "Oh, the duck-weed!" said Christina, who knows Ariadne too well to be amused by anything she says. "Miss Emerson Tree here--allow me to introduce Peter's American niece, Miss Jane Emerson Tree--calls it the 'stagnance.'" The ugly child still didn't say anything, though "stagnance" was just as absurd a word for mildew on a pond as verdigris, and I began to be quite afraid of one who, though so young, didn't seem to want to fly out. She turned half round though, and seemed to be staring hard at the body of Ariadne's shooting dress with its patch on the left shoulder. Christina went on enlightening us about the country and telling us the sort of things we were likely to ask and make fools of ourselves about. I do believe she was afraid of our saying something specially silly before Jane Emerson Tree, and wanted to save us from ourselves. It came at last, and Ariadne nearly toppled out of the cart. The ugly child spoke in the most strong American accent, and the way she leant upon the last syllable of the word _despise_ was the nastiest thing I ever heard.