getting to their
destination, it seemed to her that they were not thinking of ever
"towering": when Dr. Angus reminded her that they were so busy keeping
alive that they had no time to think how and why they were alive at all,
she was plunged into black depression; at home she had only had less
than a hundred people and a few beasts about the farm to pity. Now it
came to her with sudden force that all these people, so driven by
different forces, were to be pitied. But as soon as she saw the crowd of
people at Fenchurch Street station and a chalked notice, "Boat train for
the R.M.S. _Oriana_," she forgot abstract worries.

There seemed to be a good many children, small groups of five or six
with father and mother, and piles of inexpensive-looking luggage; there
were several young men who looked very much like the lads who worked
about the farm at home; there were groups of girls and a more or less
heterogeneous collection of people who might be passengers, and might be
friends seeing passengers off. But what impressed her immensely was a
pile of brightly striped deck-chairs with sun-awnings. They looked
exotic, tropical on the grey, gloomy platform; they seemed so pleasantly
lazy and luxurious among the piles of utilitarian-looking luggage. The
doctor bought one for her and put it among her baggage.

The train was crowded; the doctor stood up to give his seat to a woman
and Marcella sprang to her feet, talking incessantly about her
impressions and her expectations. She thought London, seen from a
railway carriage window, which gave only a view of back gardens,
factories, little streets and greyish washing drying, was an appalling
place. Three times she said to the doctor, "But what's the use of living
at all in such miserable places?" and the second and third time he only
smiled at her. The first time he had said:

"Why, either because they don't know there's anything better, or else
because they're sure there's something better. Either is a good reason
for going on with awful things."

At last they were in the tender, in a drizzling, greyish rain, ploughing
through the coffee-coloured water of the Thames towards the _Oriana_,
which seemed surprisingly small. She had several surprises during the
journey from Fenchurch Street. To begin with, someone trod on her foot
and did not apologize; several people elbowed her out of their way in
their rush to get to their luggage; no one smiled at her or spoke to
her; no one see