The two-forty-five express — Paddington to Market Blandings, first stop Oxford—stood at its piatform with that air of well-bred reserve which is characteristic of Paddington trains, and Pongo Twistleton and Lord Ickenham stood beside it, waiting for Polly Pott. The clock over the bookstall pointed to thirty-eight minutes after the hour. Some train engines are simply superior. But it’s not…
