At seven, having come after much fragmentary travel into a comforting world of express trains and Pullmans, they dined in the train itself.

Joan watched the flying landscape, dotted with snow and vanishing lights, smiled with the shining wonder of it all in her eyes, and could not eat.

Kenny tried scolding and found her sorry, but she could not eat.
By eleven, when the train thundered into the terminal at Thirty-third Street, New York was wrapped in a scudding whirl of white dotted dizzily with lights.

Already to Kenny, buoyant, excited and inclined to stride around in purposeless circles, the lonely farm was very far away.

He was back again in his own world with the roar of the city in his ears--and Joan beside him.