They had theirs on a table which the porter set between them. The train
moved on before they had finished. "We'll be in Charlottesville in less
than an hour," the conductor announced.

"Is that where we get off, Paine?"

"One mile beyond. Are they going to meet you?"

"I'll get a station wagon."

Young Paine grinned. "There aren't any. But if Mother knows you're
coming she'll send down. And anyhow she expects me."

"After a year in France--it will be a warm welcome----"

"A wet one, but I love the rain, and the red mud, every blooming inch of
it."

"Of course you do. Just as I love the dust of the desert."

They spoke, each of them, with a sort of tense calmness. One doesn't
confess to a lump in one's throat.

The little man, Kemp, was brushing things in the aisle. He was hot but
unconquered. Having laid out the belongings of the man he served, he
took a sudden recess, and came back with a fresh collar, a wet but
faultless pompadour, and a suspicion of powder on his small nose.

"All right, sir, we'll be there in fifteen minutes, sir," they heard him
say, as he was swallowed up by the yawning door.