It was
Miss Abbott, who had just received his letter from Milan
announcing the time of his arrival, and had hurried down to
meet him.
He had known Miss Abbott for years, and had never had
much opinion about her one way or the other. She was good,
quiet, dull, and amiable, and young only because she was
twenty-three: there was nothing in her appearance or manner
to suggest the fire of youth. All her life had been spent
at Sawston with a dull and amiable father, and her pleasant,
pallid face, bent on some respectable charity, was a
familiar object of the Sawston streets. Why she had ever
wished to leave them was surprising; but as she truly said,
"I am John Bull to the backbone, yet I do want to see Italy,
just once. Everybody says it is marvellous, and that one
gets no idea of it from books at all." The curate suggested
that a year was a long time; and Miss Abbott, with decorous
playfulness, answered him, "Oh, but you must let me have my
fling! I promise to have it once, and once only. It will
give me things to think about and talk about for the rest of
my life." The curate had consented; so had Mr. Abbott. And
here she was in a legno, solitary, dusty, frightened, with
as much to answer and to answer for as the most dashing
adventuress could desire.
They shook hands without speaking. She made room for
Philip and his luggage amidst the loud indignation of the
unsuccessful driver, whom it required the combined eloquence
of the station-master and the station beggar to confute.
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