Helena, Louisa, and Olive climbed the steps to go to the South-Western
platform. They were laden with dress-baskets, umbrellas, and little
packages. Olive and Louisa, at least, were in high spirits. Olive
stopped before the indicator.

'The next train for Waterloo,' she announced, in her contralto voice,
'is 10.30. It is now 10.12.' 'We go by the 10.40; it is a better train,' said Helena.

Olive turned to her with a heavy-arch manner.

'Very well, dear. There is a parting to be got through, I am told. We
sympathize, dear, but we regret it. Starting for a holiday is always a
prolonged agony. But I am strong to endure it.' 'You look it. You look as if you could tackle a bull,' cried Louisa,
skittish.

'My dear Louisa,' rang out Olive's contralto, 'don't judge me by
appearances. You're sure to be taken in. With me it's a case of '"Oh, the gladness of her gladness when she's sad,
And the sadness of her sadness when she's glad!"' She looked round to see the effect of this. Helena, expected to say
something, chimed in sarcastically: '"They are nothing to her madness--"' 'When she's going for a holiday, dear,' cried Olive.

'Oh, go on being mad,' cried Louisa.

'What, do you like it? I thought you'd be thanking Heaven that sanity
was given me in large doses.' 'And holidays in small,' laughed Louisa. 'Good! No, I like your madness,
if you call it such. You are always so serious.' '"It's ill talking of halters in the house of the hanged," dear,' boomed
Olive.