3.

The boat-train slid into the station. Bells rang, engines blew off
steam, porters shouted, baggage-trucks rattled over the platform. The
train began to give up its contents, now in ones and twos, now in a
steady stream. Most of the travellers seemed limp and exhausted, and
were pale with the pallor that comes of a choppy Channel crossing.
Almost the only exception to the general condition of collapse was
the eagle-faced lady in the brown ulster, who had taken up her stand
in the middle of the platform and was haranguing a subdued little
maid in a voice that cut the gloomy air like a steel knife. Like the
other travellers, she was pale, but she bore up resolutely. No one
could have told from Lady Underhill's demeanor that the solid
platform seemed to heave beneath her feet like a deck.

"Have you got a porter, Ferris? Where is he, then? Ah! Have you got
all the bags? My jewel-case? The suit-case? The small brown bag? The
rugs? Where are the rugs?

"Yes, I can see them, my good girl. There is no need to brandish them
in my face. Keep the jewel-case and give the rest of the things to
the porter, and take him to look after the trunks. You remember which
they are? The steamer trunk, the other trunk, the black box . . .
Very well. Then make haste. And, when you've got them all together,
tell the porter to find you a four-wheeler. The small things will go
inside. Drive to the Savoy and ask for my suite. If they make any
difficulty, tell them that I engaged the rooms yesterday by telegraph
from Mentone. Do you understand?"