Stooping suddenly, he saw the familiar letters of Stamford Brook dashing past at an astonishing speed. Surely⁠—surely the train was stopping. The porters’ room⁠—the ticket collector⁠—the passenger-shelter⁠—the Safety First pictures⁠—the advertisement of What Ho!⁠—the other name-board of the station⁠—the whole station⁠—shot maddeningly past. The train rushed on to the intolerable remoteness of Turnham Green. Hell! John Egerton uttered an audible groan of vexation. Two nonstop trains running! It was unpardonable. He had not even thought to look at the nonstop labels on the train at Charing Cross. It was too bad. Another matter for the letter to the Company! The women looked at his scowling face and giggled again, whispering behind their hands.