The porter said there was not a train for Rye for another hour.  He suggested that Joanna should put her luggage in the cloak-room and go and get herself a cup of tea—­the porter knew the difference between a drunken woman and one who is merely faint from trouble and want of her breakfast.  But Joanna’s mind was somehow obsessed by the thought of Lawrence—­her brother-in-law as she still called him in her heart—­she wanted to see him—­she remembered his kindness long ago ... and in her sorrow she was going back to the sorrow of those days ... somehow she felt as if Martin had just died, as if she had just come out of North Farthing House, alone, as she had come then—­and now Lawrence was here, as he had been then, to kiss her and say “Dear Jo"....

“What platform does the train for Africa start from?” she asked the porter.

“Well, lady, I can’t rightly say.  The only boat-train from here this morning goes to Folkestone, and that’s off—­but most likely the gentleman ud be going from Waterloo, and the trains for Waterloo start from number seven.”

The porter took her to number seven, and at the barrier she caught sight of a familiar figure sitting on a bench.  Father Lawrence’s bullet head showed above the folds of his cloak; by his side was a big shapeless bundle and his eyes were fixed on the station roof.  He started violently when a large woman suddenly sat down beside him and burst into tears.

“Lawrence!” sobbed Joanna—­“Lawrence!”

“Joanna!”

He was too startled to say anything more, but the moment did not admit of much conversation.  Joanna sat beside him, bent over her knees, her big shoulders shaking with sobs which were not always silent.  Lawrence made himself as large as he could, but he could not hide her from the public stare, for nature had not made her inconspicuous, and her taste in clothes would have defeated nature if it had.  Her orange toque had fallen sideways on her tawny hair—­she was like a big, broken sunflower.

“My dear Jo,” he said gently, after a time—­“let me go and get you a drink of water.”

“No—­don’t leave me.”

“Then let me ask someone to go.”

“No—­no....  Oh, I’m all right—­it’s only that I felt so glad at seeing you again.”

Lawrence was surprised.

“It makes me think of that other time when you were kind—­I remember when Martin died ... oh, I can’t help wishing sometimes he was dead—­that he’d died right at the start—­or I had.”

“My dear ...”

“Oh, when Martin died, at least it was finished; but this time it ain’t finished—­it’s like something broken.”  She clasped her hands, in their brown kid gloves, against her heart.

“Won’t you tell me what’s happened?  This isn’t Martin you’re talking about?”

“No.  But I thought he was like Martin—­that’s what made me take to him at the start.  I looked up and I saw him, and I said to myself ’That’s Martin’—­it gave me quite a jump.”