THE room was on the first floor back of the second-best hotel in Gullick. The low green hills beyond the window, by day strangely biblical in their quiet outline, were by now a still simpler affair of ups and downs scrawled black on a wash of dim sky. The blind was drawn and the short muslin curtains, and a still further muffler of red stiff curtains. Ursula sat primly on the edge of an upright wooden chair, and waited for Louis to come in. He had gone, after dinner in the coffee-room, to make a last inquiry about a train to London that night; to London, or even as far as Exeter or Plymouth. But she knew already that the inquiry would be futile. The stationmaster had been most discouraging when they had confidently driven up in time for the seven-twenty-three. “We’ve had our orders from the Trades Union. Trains stopped at noon today. By tomorrow, though, I dare say Govemment’ll be runnin’ some,” he added gloomily. Then Ursula had ordered Aunt Lavvy’s trunk to be lifted on to Champion’s car, and had told him to drive it back to Grey Stone: “I shall take the last bus out,” she said. “The nine-ten. But I don’t want my aunt to wait for her things.” Doug and Christine and Aunt Lavvy had accepted an invitation from Miss Gregson, on parting that afternoon, to dine with her at Parc Gooth: “And will you join them, Mrs. Barrison, when you get back from Gullick?” “Thanks very much. I certainly will, when I get back from Gullick ... if I’m not too tired.” Now--she was waiting for Louis. He would enter presently, expectant and debonair--“knowing his part backwards,” and Ursula’s mouth curved gaily as she reflected that for once a surprise was in store for Lothario.