with her into the carriage!  See her shut the carriage door with the expressed intention of keeping other people out!  She was accustomed to command.  At the same time her face had an almost set smile, as though she had said to herself:  “I will die smiling.”  Constance felt sorry for her.  While recognizing in Sophia a superior in charm, in experience, in knowledge of the world and in force of personality, she yet with a kind of undisturbed, fundamental superiority felt sorry for Sophia.

“What do you think?” said Sophia, absently fingering Fossette.  “A man came up to me at Euston, while Cyril was getting my ticket, and said, ’Eh, Miss Baines, I haven’t seen ye for over thirty years, but I know you’re Miss Baines, or were—­and you’re looking bonny.’  Then he went off.  I think it must have been Holl, the grocer.”

“Had he got a long white beard?”

“Yes.”

“Then it was Mr. Holl.  He’s been Mayor twice.  He’s an alderman, you know.”

“Really!” said Sophia.  “But wasn’t it queer?”

“Eh!  Bless us!” exclaimed Constance.  “Don’t talk about queer!  It’s terrible how time flies.”

The conversation stopped, and it refused to start again.  Two women who are full of affectionate curiosity about each other, and who have not seen each other for thirty years, and who are anxious to confide in each other, ought to discover no difficulty in talking; but somehow these two could not talk.  Constance perceived that Sophia was impeded by the same awkwardness as herself.

“Well I never!” cried Sophia, suddenly.  She had glanced out of the window and had seen two camels and an elephant in a field close to the line, amid manufactories and warehouses and advertisements of soap.

“Oh!” said Constance.  “That’s Barnum’s, you know.  They have what they call a central depot here, because it’s the middle of England.”  Constance spoke proudly. (After all, there can be only one middle.) It was on her tongue to say, in her ‘tart’ manner, that Fossette ought to be with the camels, but she refrained.  Sophia hit on the excellent idea of noting all the buildings that were new to her and all the landmarks that she remembered.  It was surprising how little the district had altered.

“Same smoke!” said Sophia.

“Same smoke!” Constance agreed.

“It’s even worse,” said Sophia.

“Do you think so?” Constance was slightly piqued.  “But they’re doing something now for smoke abatement.”

“I must have forgotten how dirty it was!” said Sophia.  “I suppose that’s it.  I’d no idea ...!”

“Really!” said Constance.  Then, in candid admission, “The fact is, it is dirty.  You can’t imagine what work it makes, especially with window-curtains.”

As the train puffed under Trafalgar Road, Constance pointed to a new station that was being built there, to be called ’Trafalgar Road’ station.

“Won’t it be strange?” said she, accustomed to the eternal sequence of Loop Lane stations—­Turnhill, Bursley, Bleakridge, Hanbridge, Cauldon, Knype, Trent Vale, and Longshaw.  A ’Trafalgar Road’ inserting itself between Bleakridge and Hanbridge seemed to her excessively curious.