Jane leaned over the back railing of the observation platform, as the
engine grunted a command to the wheels to take up their proletarian
revolutions; the clanged gate quivered before her; her husband stood at
her side. She leaned for a final finger-flutter to the two friends,
peering at her out of the golden haze thrown by the big station lamps.
"Good luck," she called back. Her handful of the hailed rice, scooped
desperately the last minute, was aimed badly; it baptized a bewildered
family, chiefly children, still looking for the obtrusively obvious
exit.
"Good luck," Pelham's deeper tones echoed hers.
The oiled switches, affectionately clearing the way for the long iron
carriage and its coupling hearts, creaked beneath them, as the cars slid
and jangled down the yards, between the furnacetown shanties, into the
winter-shriven suburban streets. Jane's placid smile followed her man as
he joined two of the comfortable chairs; her hands locked within his,
her cheek rested against the warm roughness of his, her eyes watched the
flying world curtsey and part behind them, then gradually coalesce into
a welded and blurred oblivion. They were turning their backs upon the
mountain her Pelham loved; not for good ... yes, for good, but not for
all time.