And Philip, whom the idea of Italy always intoxicated,
had started again, telling her of the supreme moments of her
coming journey--the Campanile of Airolo, which would burst on
her when she emerged from the St. Gothard tunnel, presaging
the future; the view of the Ticino and Lago Maggiore as the
train climbed the slopes of Monte Cenere; the view of
Lugano, the view of Como--Italy gathering thick around her
now--the arrival at her first resting-place, when, after long
driving through dark and dirty streets, she should at last
behold, amid the roar of trams and the glare of arc lamps,
the buttresses of the cathedral of Milan.

"Handkerchiefs and collars," screamed Harriet, "in my
inlaid box! I've lent you my inlaid box."

"Good old Harry!" She kissed every one again, and there
was a moment's silence. They all smiled steadily, excepting
Philip, who was choking in the fog, and old Mrs. Theobald,
who had begun to cry. Miss Abbott got into the carriage.
The guard himself shut the door, and told Lilia that she
would be all right. Then the train moved, and they all
moved with it a couple of steps, and waved their
handkerchiefs, and uttered cheerful little cries. At that
moment Mr. Kingcroft reappeared, carrying a footwarmer by
both ends, as if it was a tea-tray. He was sorry that he
was too late, and called out in a quivering voice,
"Good-bye, Mrs. Charles. May you enjoy yourself, and may
God bless you."