of the personally
conducted party were, it seemed, of two sorts; people the conductor wanted
and could not find, and people he did not want and who followed him in a
steadily growing tail up and down the platform. These people seemed,
indeed, to think that their one chance of reaching Rome lay in keeping
close to him. Three little old ladies were particularly energetic in his
pursuit, and at last maddened him to the pitch of clapping them into a
carriage and daring them to emerge again. For the rest of the time, one,
two, or three of their heads protruded from the window wailing inquiries
about "a little wicker-work box" whenever he drew near. There was a very
stout man with a very stout wife in shiny black; there was a little old
man like an aged hostler.

"What _can_ such people want in Rome?" asked Miss Winchelsea. "What
can it mean to them?" There was a very tall curate in a very small straw
hat, and a very short curate encumbered by a long camera stand. The
contrast amused Fanny very much. Once they heard some one calling for
"Snooks." "I always thought that name was invented by novelists," said
Miss Winchelsea. "Fancy! Snooks. I wonder which _is_ Mr. Snooks."
Finally they picked out a very stout and resolute little man in a large
check suit. "If he isn't Snooks, he ought to be," said Miss Winchelsea.

Presently the conductor discovered Helen's attempt at a corner in
carriages. "Room for five," he bawled with a parallel translation on his
fingers. A party of four together--mother, father, and two daughters--
blundered in, all greatly excited. "It's all right, Ma--you let me," said
one of the daughters, hitting her mother's bonnet with a handbag she
struggled to put in the rack. Miss Winchelsea detested people who banged
about and called their mother "Ma." A young man travelling alone followed.
He was not at all "touristy" in his costume, Miss Winchelsea observed; his
Gladstone bag was of good pleasant leather with labels reminiscent of
Luxembourg and Ostend, and his boots, though brown, were not vulgar. He
carried an overcoat on his arm. Before these people had properly settled
in their places, came an inspection of tickets and a slamming of doors,
and behold! they were gliding out of Charing Cross Station on their way to
Rome.

"Fancy!" cried Fanny, "we are going to Rome, my dear! Rome! I don't seem
to believe it, even now."

Miss Winchelsea suppressed Fanny's emotions with a little smile, and the
lady who wa