She met some people at the station that she knew and travelled up with them.

That picture of Mrs.
Phillips's tongue just showing beyond the line of Mrs.Phillips's cheek remained at the back of her mind; but it was not until she was alone in her own rooms that she dared let her thoughts return to it.
The suggestion that was forcing itself into her brain was monstrous--unthinkable.

That, never possessed of any surplus vitality, and suffering from the added lassitude of illness, the woman should have become indifferent--willing to let a life that to her was full of fears and difficulties slip peacefully away from her, that was possible.

But that she should exercise thought and ingenuity--that she should have reasoned the thing out and deliberately laid her plans, calculating at every point on their success; it was inconceivable.
Besides, what could have put the idea into her head?
It was laughable, the presumption that she was a finished actress, capable of deceiving everyone about her.

If she had had an inkling of the truth, Joan, with every nerve on the alert, almost hoping for it, would have detected it.
She had talked with her alone the day before she had left England, and the woman had been full of hopes and projects for the future.
That picture of Mrs.Phillips, propped up against the pillows, with her make-up box upon her knees was still before her when she went to bed.