They got a first-class carriage to themselves.
It was lucky, because they were taking a good deal in with them, Alban's suit-case and a hold-all, Annie's dressing-case and her hat-box.
They had two trunks in the van, containing what they wanted immediately, but all the rest of their luggage Alban had put in the care of an agent who was to take it up to London and store it till they had made up their minds what to do.
They had a lot, pictures and books, curios that Alban had collected in the East, his guns and saddles.
They had left Sondurah for ever.
Alban, as was his way, tipped the porter generously and then went to the bookstall and bought papers.
He bought the New Statesman and the Nation, and the Tatler and the Sketch, and the last number of the London Mercury.
He came back to the carriage and threw them on the seat.
'It's only an hour's journey,' said Anne.
'I know, but I wanted to buy them.
I've been starved so long.
Isn't it grand to think that tomorrow morning we shall have tomorrow's Times, and the Express and the Mail7.'
She did not answer and he turned away, for he saw coming towards them two persons, a man and his wife, who had been fellow-passengers from Singapore.
'Get through the customs all right?' he cried to them cheerily.
The man seemed not to hear, for he walked straight on, but the woman answered.
'Yes, they never found the cigarettes.'
She saw Anne, gave her a friendly little smile, and passed on.
Anne flushed.
'I was afraid they'd want to come in here,' said Alban.
'Let's have the carriage to ourselves if we can.'
She looked at him curiously.
'I don't think you need worry,' she answered.
'I don't think anyone will come in.'
He lit a cigarette and lingered at the carriage door.
On his face was a happy smile.
When they had passed through the Red Sea and found a sharp wind in the Canal, Anne had been surprised to see how much the men who had looked presentable enough in the white ducks in which she had been accustomed to see them, were changed when they left them off for warmer clothes.
They looked like nothing on earth then.
Their ties were awful and their shirts all wrong.
They wore grubby flannel trousers and shabby old golf-coats that had too obviously been bought off the nail, or blue serge suits that betrayed the provincial tailor.
Most of the passengers had got off at Marseilles, but a dozen or so, either because after a long period in the East they thought the trip through the Bay would do them good, or, like themselves, for economy's sake, had gone all the way to Tilbury, and now several of them walked along the platform.
They wore solar topis or double-brimmed terais, and heavy great-coats, or else shapeless soft hats or bowlers, not too well brushed, that looked too small for them.
It was a shock to see them. They looked suburban and a trifle second-rate.
But Alban had already a London look.
There was not a speck of dust on his smart greatcoat, and his black Homburg hat looked brand-new.
You would never have guessed that he had not been home for three years.
His collar fitted closely round his neck and his foulard tie was neatly tied.
As Anne looked at him she could not but think how good-looking he was.
He was just under six feet tall, and slim, and he wore his clothes well, and his clothes were well cut.
He had fair hair, still thick, and blue eyes and the faintly yellow skin common to men of that complexion after they have lost the pink-and-white freshness of early youth.
There was no colour in his cheeks.
It was a fine head, well-set on rather a long neck, with a somewhat prominent Adam's apple; but you were more impressed with the distinction than with the beauty of his face.
It was because his features were so regular, his nose so straight, his brow so broad that he photographed so well.
Indeed, from his photographs you would have thought him extremely handsome.
He was not that, perhaps because his eyebrows and his eyelashes were pale, and his lips thin, but he looked very intellectual.
There was refinement in his face and a spirituality that was oddly moving.
That was how you thought a poet should look; and when Anne became engaged to him she told her girl friends who asked her about him that he looked like Shelley.
He turned to her now with a little smile in his blue eyes. His smile was very attractive.
'What a perfect day to land in England!'
It was October.
They had steamed up the Channel on a grey sea under a grey sky.