moustaches were turning the underclothing in the bags, then scrawling a chalk-mark.

It was done. Birkin snapped the hand bags, off they went, the porter coming behind. They were through a great doorway, and in the open night again — ah, a railway platform! Voices were still calling in inhuman agitation through the dark-grey air, spectres were running along the darkness between the train.

‘Koln — Berlin — ’ Ursula made out on the boards hung on the high train on one side.

‘Here we are,’ said Birkin. And on her side she saw: ‘Elsass — Lothringen — Luxembourg, Metz — Basle.’

‘That was it, Basle!’

The porter came up.