"I'm responsible for you to Zora."

A shaft of jealousy shot through her tears.

"You always think of Zora."

"To think of her," replied Septimus, vaguely allusive, "is a liberal
education."

Emmy shrugged her shoulders. She was not of the type that makes paragons
out of her own sex, and she had also a sisterly knowledge of Zora
unharmonious with Septimus's poetic conception. But she felt too miserable
to argue. She asked him the time.

At last the train came in. There was a great rattling of milk-cans on the
gloomy platform, and various slouching shapes entered third-class
carriages. The wanderers had the only first-class compartment to
themselves. It struck cold and noisome, like a peculiarly unaired
charnel-house. A feeble lamp, whose effect was dimmed by the swishing dirty
oil in the bottom of the globe, gave a pretense at illumination. The guard
passing by the window turned his lantern on them and paused for a wondering
moment. Were they a runaway couple? If so, thought he, they had arrived at
quick repentance. As they looked too dismal for tips, he concerned himself
with them no more. The train started. Emmy shook with cold, in spite of
her fur-lined jacket. Septimus took off his overcoat and spread it over
their two bodies as they huddled together for warmth. After a while her
head drooped on his shoulder and she slept, while Septimus sucked his empty
pipe, not daring to light it lest he should disturb her slumbers. For the
same reason he forbore to change his original awkward attitude, and in