Cold seemed to
have taken to itself a visible form in the thin, gray fog that
filled the huge station from the platform to the glass roof. The
latter had vanished, indistinguishable from sky invisible, and
from the brooding darkness, in which the lamps innumerable served
only to make spots of thinness. It was a mist, not a November
fog, properly so called; but every breath breathed by every
porter, as he ran along by the side of the slowly halting train,
was adding to its mass, which seemed to Mary to grow in bulk and
density as she gazed. Her quiet, simple, decided manner at once
secured her attention, and she was among the first who had their
boxes on cabs and were driving away.
But the drive seemed interminable, and she had grown anxious and
again calmed herself many times, before it came to an end. The
house at which the cab drew up was large, and looked as dreary as
large, but scarcely drearier than any other house in London on
that same night of November. The cabman rang the bell, but it was
not until they had waited a time altogether unreasonable that the
door at length opened, and a lofty, well-built footman in livery
appeared framed in it.
Mary got out, and, going up the steps, said she hoped the driver
had brought her to the right house: it was Mrs. Redmain's she
wanted.
"Mrs. Redmain is not at home, miss," answered the man.
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