The three girls in the corners of the railway carriage stopped talking, as the train drew up in Wycombe station, and a fourth girl got in and took the vacant corner.
The first three had talked excitedly as they passed through the London suburbs; then for a time Ann had fallen silent, gazing out at the spring meadows and hills of Buckinghamshire and the endless marvellous shades of young green in the woods. The other two were old friends, who shared rooms together in town; they did not know her very well yet, as it was only two months since she had been taken on in the typing office, where Norah had worked for two years. The office girls had found Ann pleasant and friendly, but she was still “Miss Rowney” to them, and nobody knew very much about her.
Norah and Connie were different. They were a recognised couple. Con, who sold gloves in a big West-End establishment, was the wife and homemaker; Norah, the typist, was the husband, who planned little pleasure trips and kept the accounts and took Con to the pictures.
The stranger girl, who had taken the fourth corner and stopped the Con-and-Norah chatter, had a big shopping-basket full of parcels. The three Londoners eyed her for a moment or two, as the train set off towards Aylesbury; she was fair, with pretty delicate colouring, and she wore navy blue—a long coat and a little bonnet—which looked like some sort of nurse’s uniform.
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